by Rosie Clarke
I met my father at the top of the stairs. He was a large, heavy man with dark hair greying at the sides and a sour expression. He always dressed in black, with a striped waistcoat and a white shirt, come summer or winter. He was usually fair enough in his dealings with me, but that evening he was clearly out of temper, because he glared at me, his eyes an unforgiving grey.
‘Gossiping with your mother I suppose? Get down there before someone comes in, Emma. Who knows what that idiot I employ will do if he’s left alone for five minutes.’
‘Yes, Father.’
I ran down the stairs, relieved to escape. Father’s assistant – a spotty-faced, ginger-haired youth of sixteen, who received no more wages than I did – was selling Woodbines to a boy I knew wasn’t old enough to smoke.
‘Ben!’ I stopped him as he was about to hand over the cigarettes. ‘Have you asked how old he is?’
‘I’m seventeen, miss,’ the boy squeaked. ‘Honest I am.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I contradicted. ‘I know you, Tim Green. You’re not yet fourteen. Give him his money back, Ben.’
‘You ain’t got no right. I’ve paid me money, I want me fags.’
‘I’ll tell your mother – and she’ll give you a strapping.’
‘Ah, go on, miss. Let me ’ave just the one. I can pay. I ain’t after stealing it like some.’
‘Buy some humbugs or liquorice pipes instead. You can have some of those sweet cigarettes if you like. Besides, smoking stunts your growth, haven’t you heard that?’
As he was nearly my own height, that hardly seemed much of a threat, but it was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment. It was glamorous to smoke; all the film stars did it, and most men I knew – and quite a few of the women, too, though the more refined of them did it in private, because some people still felt it wasn’t quite nice for ladies to smoke in public. And this was 1938!
‘And it stops your thing growing,’ Ben supplied helpfully. ‘You’d best have a barley twist instead.’
‘Oh, go on then,’ the lad said reluctantly. ‘But I don’t believe you about the thing. Our Mark’s is as long as that—’ he measured an impossible twelve inches on the counter, ‘—and he’s bin smokin’ since he were nine.’
‘Get away with you!’ I said, hard put not to laugh, and gave him the biggest barley twist in the jar, which should have cost more than the smaller ones. ‘And don’t try that here again until you’re older.’
Tim Green laughed and ran out, clutching his sticky sweet triumphantly, well aware he’d done well for his halfpenny.
‘I’m sorry, Emma,’ Ben said. ‘I never thought to ask how old he was … and he only wanted the one. All the kids do it. It don’t do them no harm. Me Dad says it’s good for your lungs – clears him out when he has a good cough in the mornings.’
‘I know, but we’re not supposed to sell them to children. Besides, my father doesn’t encourage them in here. He says they steal more than they buy – and it gives the shop a bad name.’
Ben was about to continue his protest when the bell went and two customers entered. Ben served one of our regulars with an evening paper and some pear drops, while I waited for the second customer to speak. He was a stranger. Dressed in a smart grey pin-striped suit, Homburg hat, starched white collar, plain waistcoat and spotted tie, he was obviously a gentlemen. We didn’t get many in dressed like that, and when he spoke I knew he was from what my father would call the upper class – one of the gentry, but not an aristocrat.
My father was very class conscious. He thought of himself as middle-class, because he owned his own business, and looked down on anyone who ranked beneath him in the accepted hierarchy.
‘I should like a box of those cigars, please,’ the stranger said, seeming to notice me at last. ‘A box of Cadburys’ milk chocolates, the evening paper – and twenty Players.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I reached down the items he had indicated from the shelf behind me. ‘These are the best Havanas. That will be ten shillings and threepence altogether, sir.’
‘Cheap at the price, I expect?’ His eyes were deep blue and very bright, as though he was laughing at me. I noticed his hair looked dark and thick where it was visible beneath his hat. ‘You weren’t here when I popped in for a newspaper earlier, were you?’
‘No …’ I felt myself growing warm beneath his quizzical gaze. I had never met anyone quite like this; Father would have served him himself if he’d been here. ‘It was my afternoon off. I went to see my grandmother.’
‘And now you have to work again. What a shame.’
‘I don’t mind, not really. Father will come down when he’s had his supper. It’s only for an hour or so.’
‘Fortunate for me I didn’t leave it until later, then.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Paul Greenslade.’ He tipped his hat and I saw his hair was thick and wavy. He was rather handsome, a bit like the film stars I’d seen in magazines. ‘I suppose you would think it an awful cheek if I asked you to come to the pictures with me this evening? I’m on my own, you see, and feeling lonely.’
I could feel my cheeks turning a bright red. This wasn’t the first time a customer had asked me out, of course, but it was usually just one of the local lads being cheeky, and I always said no. And I’d only been to the pictures a couple of times, with Mum and Gran as a birthday treat. I hadn’t ever been asked out by a stranger before – nor had any man looked at me in quite this way. It made me feel a bit wobbly inside.
‘No, I don’t think it’s a cheek,’ I said, my voice sort of breathy and excited. ‘It’s very kind of you – but I can’t come.’
‘Why? You don’t have to work after your father comes down, do you? We could just about catch the last showing.’
‘I’m finished for the day then.’ I dropped my gaze as he gave me an amused, questioning look. ‘Father wouldn’t let me go out with you. He’s very strict.’
‘Now that is a shame.’ He took a pound note from his wallet and handed it to me. ‘Do you think your father might relent if I asked him?’
‘No, please don’t,’ I said. ‘It would make him angry.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Another time then.’ He tipped his hat again, going out as three working men came in together. ‘Goodbye – Miss Robinson, is it? It was nice meeting you.’
I was too busy serving the men to reply. For several minutes both Ben and I had a succession of customers; after a while it tailed off and finally the shop was empty.
Ben gave me an odd look when we had time to breathe again. ‘You should have gone out with the toff, Emma. Missed your chance for a good time there.’
‘I didn’t know him,’ I replied, thinking how much fun it would have been if I’d dared to accept his offer. ‘Father would never have let me go out with a man I’d never met before. Only common girls let strangers pick them up just like that.’
Girls like me didn’t do that sort of thing, but I thought perhaps the ones who did had a lot more excitement in their lives.
‘You’re not common,’ Ben said, giving me an admiring glance. He daren’t say it, of course, but I suspected he had a bit of a crush on me in his way. ‘I never meant that, you know I didn’t. I just thought you would’ve liked it, Emma. Most girls would jump at the chance to go out with a man like him.’
I shook my head and turned away to tidy the shelf behind me. I agreed with him in my heart, but I knew what people thought of girls who went off with a man at the drop of a hat. Especially in a town like ours, where everyone knew each other, and a stranger walking down the street caused heads to turn. I wasn’t fast and I wasn’t cheap – but I had liked the stranger’s smile. If we had met properly, been introduced by someone Father knew … but there was no point in dreaming. Mr Greenslade had probably been passing through and I would never see him again.
The shop began to fill up once more. Three girls came in. I knew them all by sight, though they were older than me. They all worked at the railway
canteen. Two had scarves wound round their heads like turbans; they were both wearing bright red lipstick and one of them had a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth – exactly what Father meant when he spoke of the factory women as common. The third girl, however, looked different. She was pretty, with soft fair hair that she wore in a pageboy bob. Her perfume wafted towards me across the counter, flowery and rather nice.
‘Hello, Emma,’ she said in her usual friendly manner. ‘Could I have a small bar of Fry’s milk chocolate please – and a quarter of Tom Thumb drops for our Terry? He’s had the measles and I promised him a treat.’
‘Poor lad,’ I said, feeling sorry for her brother. ‘I had measles when I was eleven; it was horrible.’
‘Well, Ma says I’ve had it, and she put Freddie in with me so that he took it, too, but our Terry wasn’t born then. Still, he’s had most things now. It was the mumps before Christmas, proper poorly he was with that, and the chicken pox last summer.’
‘Bless him,’ I said and added an extra half-ounce of sweets for the same price. ‘You look nice, Sheila. Off out somewhere?’
‘My boyfriend is taking me to the dance at the Women’s Institute,’ she said, looking happy. ‘They have them most weeks. You should come, Emma. It’s fun.’
I felt a pang of envy as I looked at the pretty dress she was wearing. It had a narrow skirt that flared out in a frill at the hem and the jacket was belted, with wide, padded shoulders. She looked a treat and I thought it would be wonderful to be going somewhere nice dressed up like that.
‘I wish I could!’ I sighed enviously. ‘You’re so lucky, Sheila.’
‘Eric would fix you up with one of his mates,’ Sheila offered, warming to the idea. ‘We could go next week as a foursome if you like?’
‘Emma! Your mother needs you upstairs.’
I jumped as my father spoke. I had not been aware of him standing just behind me, and, glancing round, I saw he was annoyed. He didn’t approve of my gossiping with the canteen girls, but I’d always liked Sheila, who was only a year older than me, but seemed very sophisticated.
‘Thanks, Sheila,’ I said, ignoring my father’s frown of disapproval. ‘I’ll ask Mum if I can come.’
I gave Sheila her change, slipped past my father and up the stairs before the shop emptied, giving Father no chance to lecture me. With any luck, he would have forgotten all about it by the time he closed up for the night.
‘I’d let you go,’ my mother said later that evening when I asked about the dance. ‘You know I would, Emma – but your father would raise the roof. We’d never hear the last of it.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ I sighed as my hopes were dashed. ‘I didn’t really expect you to say yes.’
‘Don’t look so disappointed, love.’ Mother patted my hand to console me. ‘Those dances aren’t up to much, anyway. One day you’ll find a nice young man, and he’ll take you somewhere decent.’
‘Shall I?’ I gazed at her, feeling close to desperation. ‘Will it happen, Mum? Shall I ever be able to go out like other girls?’
‘It will have to be someone your father likes and approves of, you know that – but the time will come, Emma. I promise you.’
I smothered my doubts and kissed her goodnight. I was usually in bed by a quarter to nine, because I had to be up to check the papers by soon after five, and I liked to read in bed. Reading was one of the few pleasures I was allowed, and even that brought a frown of censure from Father if he saw me with what he termed ‘trashy’ library novels.
I sat at my dressing table, brushing my hair and pulling faces in the mirror. If only I were as pretty as Sheila! Then perhaps someone would come along and sweep me off my feet. He would be tall and handsome, and very rich, and naturally he would fall instantly in love with me. We would run away together, to somewhere exciting like America or Paris, and my life would never be lonely or boring again.
Suddenly, I laughed at myself. That was what came of reading too many romance stories. I never met any exciting men – or I hadn’t until this evening.
I got into bed, my book unopened, as I thought about Paul Greenslade. He was just like Clark Gable or Spencer Tracy: handsome, dashing, a gentleman.
My father might not allow me to go to the cinema very much, but I was as star-struck as the rest of my generation. I read all the magazines about the Hollywood film stars and lingered outside the cinema whenever I had the chance, feasting my eyes on the magical posters of the latest films.
I smiled as I recalled the look of disappointment in Paul Greenslade’s eyes when I’d turned him down. It was almost like something out of the movies. Only in a film he wouldn’t give up; he would keep following me until I agreed to go out with him.
The only man I knew who did that was Richard Gillows and I wished he wouldn’t. He was all right in his own way, I supposed, but I didn’t like him much. There was something about the way he looked at me that made me feel uncomfortable.
I opened my book. I was foolish to dream of having a more exciting life. No matter what Gran or my mother said to comfort me, I was certain that nothing was ever going to change.
I went to church that Sunday with Mother as usual. Afterwards, we stood talking to friends for a few minutes before starting to walk home. It was as we stopped to look in a shop window that Richard Gillows crossed the road to speak to us.
‘Evening, Mrs Robinson – Emma,’ he said, raising his trilby hat. ‘Been to church then?’
Dressed in a single-breasted, dark navy pin-striped suit with wide shoulders and a matching waistcoat, he looked much smarter than he usually did when I met him on his way home from work. Almost a gentleman, I thought, even if his suit had come from the thirty-shilling tailor’s.
‘Yes, we usually go on Sunday morning,’ Mother replied. ‘How are you, Richard?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Going somewhere special?’
‘Just out to dinner with a friend.’ Richard hesitated, his dark eyes intent on me. ‘I’ve been asked to a church social at the church hall a week on Wednesday. I wondered if Emma might like to come?’
‘Would you, Emma?’ My mother glanced at me, but I kept quiet and she looked at him again. ‘We should have to ask Mr Robinson. Perhaps Emma could let you know?’
‘It starts at six. I’d have her home by nine.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ She smiled at him. ‘Come along, Emma. Your father will be waiting for his dinner.’
After walking in silence for a few minutes, Mother turned to me. ‘Would you like to go with him? I’m sure your father would agree if I persuaded him a little. He gets on well with Richard – and a church social isn’t like a public dance.’
As Richard well knew! He’d chosen his target well.
‘I’m not sure.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘It would be nice to go out, but he might take it as a sign I liked him – that I wanted him to court me.’
‘He isn’t all that bad,’ Mother said. ‘Especially when he’s dressed up. You could do worse, Emma. If you were courting him, your father would have to let you go to the pictures and things.’
‘I don’t know.’ Richard had looked different and I supposed I might get to like him if I let myself. ‘I’d like to think about it for a day or two.’
‘Well, don’t think about it too long,’ she said. ‘I doubt he’ll hang around for ever. If you don’t want him, there’s plenty of girls who will.’
Chapter Two
It had just started to rain that afternoon, and foolishly I had come out in only a thin dress and cardigan. I peered anxiously up at the sky, which was overcast but not black. Was it going to be simply a shower or should I go back for my coat and umbrella?
‘Get in before it really starts. I’ll give you a lift wherever you’re going.’
The man’s voice startled me, making me swing round sharply. I’d been vaguely aware of the car pulling into the kerb behind me, but hadn’t taken much notice. I didn’t know anyone who owned a car, though se
veral of Father’s business friends had vans for delivering goods.
No one around here had a car like this one! It was too luxurious, too expensive. Staring at the driver fixedly for a moment, I was surprised to discover I recognized him.
‘Mr Greenslade …’
‘You remembered. I’m flattered.’ He leaned across to open the passenger-side door. ‘Come on, Miss Robinson. I’m not dangerous. I won’t ravish you against your will. Tell me where you want to go and I’ll deliver you safely – scout’s honour!’
His teasing made me laugh. I’d never met anyone like this before. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if anyone was watching, noting the fact that Emma Robinson was talking to a stranger, then felt a surge of rebellion. Who cared? I had a perfect excuse for getting into the car, because the rain was getting worse. Besides, he wasn’t a complete stranger. I had sort of met him before. He had been into the shop to buy cigarettes at least three times now, and on two of those occasions my father had served him personally. He hadn’t asked me out or even seemed to notice me particularly after the first time, which was probably just as well.
‘Thank you,’ I said, making up my mind and sliding into the car beside him. The seats were covered in leather and smelled nice. ‘This is a Bentley, isn’t it? I’ve never seen one close to before.’
‘It belongs to my father,’ he said, glancing my way as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘I couldn’t afford this on my salary. I shall have to wait until the old boy snuffs it and leaves me this one.’
I was a little shocked by his casual reference to his father’s death, but didn’t let it show. The rich were different. I’d heard my father say it often enough, and was sure he was right. They had different moral values, different standards to ordinary folk.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, to cover a slight awkwardness. ‘If you meant it about giving me a lift, I’m going to my grandmother’s. She lives in a cottage by the line. Mother Jacobs they call her – but you wouldn’t know that, not being local.’