‘What’s all this, then?’ he asked, squeezing Joan’s shoulder, kissing Scarlett’s cheek. ‘Slacking on the job?’
‘Oh, it’s so wonderful,’ Joan breathed. ‘All the singing and that. He describes it so well. The people and the robes, all the colours. I just wish we had one of those televisions. It must be wonderful to watch it all going on.’
‘It’s what we do best, ain’t it?’ Victor said. ‘Us British. We do pomp and ceremony best in the world.’
He pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette. Scarlett made her parents another cup of tea each and left them sitting contentedly, one either side of the big brown wireless, while she picked up the precious copy of Gone with the Wind and went to her room to change. Like everyone in the country who could possibly afford it, she had a new dress to wear for Coronation Day. It was blue cotton with white polka dots, with a tight bodice and a fashionably full skirt. She tied a long red, white and blue striped ribbon round her ponytail and then turned this way and that in front of the small mirror over the chest of drawers, trying to get a full length view of herself. What she could see pleased her. She put her hands to her slim waist and pushed it in still further, smiling at her reflection. She might not be a southern belle like Scarlett O’Hara, but today was a special day and she was going to enjoy it.
CHAPTER TWO
‘TWO more pints o’ that there Coronation Ale, if you please, young missy!’
‘Coming up, sir!’
An anomaly in the licensing laws allowed Scarlett, as the licensee’s child, to serve alcohol even though she was too young to drink it. She pulled the beer carefully into the jugs, as she had been taught. It was no use rushing a good pint.
Beside her, her mother pushed a strand of hair back off her damp forehead.
‘Scarlett, love, when you’ve done that, can you run round and get the empties? We’re almost out of clean glasses.’
‘Righty-oh, Mum.’
The Red Lion was jumping. There was a roar of happy voices from both bars and a pall of blue smoke hanging over everyone’s heads. Nobody could remember seeing so many people in since VE day. Crowds of men and quite a number of women were packed into the two bars and children were running around on the village green outside clutching bottles of pop and shrieking. Everyone was in an excellent mood, and of course there was only one topic of conversation.
‘…she looked so beautiful, sort of stately, like…’
‘…and the two little kiddies, they behaved so well, didn’t they?’
‘That Queen of Tonga, she’s a character, ain’t she? Sitting in the rain there, waving away to the crowds!’
Scarlett squeezed her way between the cheerful customers. Those who had managed to get tables piled the empties up for her and handed them over.
‘There y’are girl, and here’s a few more. Can you manage? Oh, she’s a chip off the old block and no mistake. You going to be a landlady when you grow up, young Scarlett?’
‘Not on your nelly,’ Scarlett said to herself. She had other ideas for her future. An air hostess, maybe, or a lady detective, tracking down ruthless murderers, or more practically, a lady chauffeur, driving rich and famous people about in a swish car.
She wriggled past her father’s little group of regulars on her way out to the kitchen. Even he was on the business side of the bar this evening. He was only attending to his cronies, but at least he was doing that and he was keeping them well topped up. They were on whisky chasers, Scarlett noticed.
‘Ah, here’s the prettiest little barmaid in all of Essex,’ one of them exclaimed as she tried to force her way through. ‘Aren’t you afraid some young fella-me-lad will come and whisk her away, Vic?’
Her father smiled at her between the flushed faces.
‘Ah, she’s still Daddy’s girl, aren’t you, my pet?’ he said, lifting the flap in the bar to let her through.
‘That’s right,’ Scarlett agreed. Most of the boys she knew were gangling and spotty. Not like the heroes of books and films.
There were more dirty glasses lined up on the bar. She piled those onto a tray with the ones she had collected already, staggered through into the back room and kicked the door closed behind her.
‘Phew!’
It was cooler and the air was much clearer out here. Better still, there were no raucous voices calling out to her. It was tempting to linger over the washing up, spinning out the time before going back into the bar. Her school friends would all be at home or round at friends’ or relatives’ houses enjoying themselves this evening. They’d be playing card games or watching repeats of the day’s ceremony on their new televisions, not rushing about working. She thought of the copy of Gone with the Wind waiting for her upstairs. How nice to be able to slip up there now and escape into Scarlett O’ Hara’s world and just listen to the rumble of voices coming up from below, like she used to when she was younger.
‘Hey, Scarlett, my pet!’
Her father’s head appeared round the door.
‘Those glasses ready yet?’
‘Nearly.’
Scarlett dried the last one and hurried out with the loaded tray. Her parents immediately grabbed them and started pouring fresh drinks.
‘Good girl—can you do the ashtrays now?’ her mother asked. ‘Yes, Mr Philips? Two best bitters and a mild, was it? And a G and T. Right. Mrs Philips here too, is she? How did the children enjoy the tea? All right, sir, be with you in a minute. Yes, I know you’ve been waiting. Scarlett, leave the ashtrays and serve this gentleman, will you?’
Scarlett concentrated on the impatient customer as he reeled off a long and complicated round. Over on the far side of the public bar, a sing-song had started.
‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do—’
Others took up the song until the whole bar had joined in.
‘I’m half crazy, all for the love of you—’
‘Two port and lemons, a rum and blackcurrant, half of bitter shandy, a Guinness—’ Scarlett muttered to herself, adding it up in her head as she went along.
People in the lounge bar heard the singing and started up a rival tune.
‘Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves—’
‘Oh, and a pint of Coronation Ale, love,’ Scarlett’s customer added, shouting above the noise.
Both songs were going full blast, but the lounge bar crowd didn’t know all the words to Rule Britannia, so they contented themselves with singing the chorus three times and tra-la-ing in between. The public bar finished Daisy, Daisy and started on Roll out the Barrel. The lounge bar lot gave up competing and joined in too. Scarlett finished her round and took the money. As she rang it up on the till, there was a crash and a thud behind her. She spun round and cried out loud. Her mother was slumped on the floor surrounded by broken glass and a pool of beer. Her face was deathly pale and her lips a dreadful bluish colour. Scarlett bent down beside her.
‘Mum, Mum! What’s the matter?’
‘Joannie!’
Victor crouched at the other side of her, patting her cheek, shaking her arm. His face was as flushed as hers was pale.
‘Joannie, what is it? Come on, Joannie, speak to me!’
Joan’s eyes were staring. Jagged groans tore from her mouth as she struggled to breathe.
‘What’s up? What’s wrong?’
People were leaning over the bar.
‘Joan’s had a funny turn.’
‘Get her into the fresh air.’
‘Get a doctor.’
One of the regulars lifted the flap and joined them behind the bar.
‘Come on, Vic, let’s get her out the back.’
In an agony of worry, Scarlett followed. She grabbed a cushion from one of the chairs to put under her mother’s head as the men lowered her mother gently to the floor, then Scarlett crouched beside her, holding her hand and feeling utterly helpless. What could she do? She wanted so desperately to help her mum and didn’t know how.
A woman came in. ‘Can I help? I’m a nurse.’
&nbs
p; Scarlett felt a rush of relief. Here was someone who could advise them.
Victor welcomed her in. As she knelt by Joan, a man put his head round the door.
‘Someone’s gone for Dr Collins. How is she?’
‘Thanks,’ Victor said. ‘I don’t know. She’s—’
‘Ring for an ambulance,’ the nurse cut in. She looked at Scarlett. ‘You’ll be the quickest. Run over to the telephone. Do you know how to do it? Ring 999 and tell them it’s a heart attack.’
Fear clutched at Scarlett’s entrails. A heart attack! Her mum was having a heart attack! Wordlessly, she nodded and sprang to her feet. She was out of the back door, round the side of the pub and across the village green in seconds, running faster than she had ever run in her life. Her lungs heaving, she wrenched open the heavy door of the telephone box on the far side of the green from the Red Lion, picked up the receiver and dialled 999. She struggled to control her breathing so that she could speak clearly.
‘Ambulance—my mum—the nurse said she’s having a heart attack—’
A calm female voice on the other end of the line took the details and assured her that an ambulance would be with them as soon as possible. Scarlett replaced the phone and stepped out into the summer evening again. Everything was carrying on as if nothing had happened. Houses were bright with flags and bunting for the big celebration. Across the green, the door of the Red Lion stood open and children were still playing outside. Someone cycled past and called out a greeting to her. It all felt unreal, as if she were watching it on the cinema screen. This couldn’t really be happening, not to her. It was all too much, too fast. One moment she had been serving a customer, the next she’d been telephoning for an ambulance. A heart attack. It wasn’t right. Men had heart attacks, not ladies, not her mother.
‘Mum!’ she cried out loud. ‘Oh, Mum!’
She set off across the green again, ignoring the shouts of the children as they chased round her. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed two other figures hastening towards the pub. Something made her look again, and then she veered over to meet them.
‘Oh, Dr Collins, thank you, thank you—it’s my mum—’
‘I know, I know—’
The doctor was an elderly man, past retirement age. Already he was out of breath, and the man who had gone to fetch him was carrying his bag for him. Like the rest of the village, he must have been celebrating, for he was wearing evening dress and Scarlett could smell drink on his breath. He put a heavy hand on her shoulder as he hurried along.
‘Don’t worry, young Scarlett—’
Scarlett hovered by his side in an agony of impatience. She knew he was going as fast as he could, but he was so slow, so slow! She wanted to drag him along.
‘Come round the back,’ she said as they reached the Red Lion.
She knew as soon as she and the doctor went through the door. She knew by the way they were standing, by the way they turned as she entered the room. She knew by the look on their faces.
‘Mum?’ she croaked. ‘She’s not—? Please say she’s not—’
There was a ringing in her ears. Everything was blurred, everything but the woman lying on the floor, the dear woman who was the rock of her life, the one dependable point upon which everything else was fixed.
‘Mum!’ she wailed, running forward, dropping to her knees. She grasped one of the limp hands in hers, clasping it to her chest. ‘Mum, don’t go, don’t leave me!’
Hands were restraining her, arms were round her shoulders. She shook them off.
‘No, no! She can’t be dead, she can’t!’
Dr Collins was listening to Joan’s chest, feeling for a pulse in her neck.
‘Do something!’ Scarlett screamed. ‘You’ve got to do something!’
Two strong hands were holding the tops of her arms now.
‘Now, then, that’s enough,’ a firm female voice was saying.
Scarlett ignored her. She was staring wildly at her mother, at the doctor, willing him to perform some miracle of medical science. But he just gave a sad little shake of the head.
‘I’m sorry, Scarlett—’
‘No!’ Scarlett howled. Her chest was heaving with sobs, tears welled up and spilled over in a storm of weeping. Her father was there, kneeling beside her, pulling her into his arms. Together they rocked and wept, oblivious to the people around them.
‘She was the best woman in the world,’ Victor croaked. ‘A gem, a diamond—’
Scarlett could only bury her face in his broad chest and cry and cry. It was like the end of the world.
After that came a terrible time of official things to be done. However much Scarlett and Victor wanted to shut out the world and mourn the dear woman who had gone, there were people to see, forms to sign, things to arrange. The funeral was very well attended. The Red Lion was a centre of village life. Joan had been there behind the bar all through the terrible war years and the difficult days of austerity afterwards. Everyone missed her round smiling face and her sympathetic ear.
‘She was a wonderful woman,’ people said as they left the church.
‘One of the best.’
‘Salt of the earth.’
‘She’ll be much missed.’
Standing by her father’s side, Scarlett nodded and shook hands and muttered thanks.
‘You’re a good girl,’ people said to her. ‘A credit to your mother, a chip off the old block.’
And all the while she wanted to scream and shout and rage against what had happened. This couldn’t be true, it couldn’t be happening to her. Her mother couldn’t really have gone and left her like this.
But she had, and there was worse to come.
CHAPTER THREE
ONE Saturday about three weeks after the funeral, Scarlett walked into the lounge bar to find her father sitting on a stool at the bar counter staring morosely at a letter. He looked dreadful. There were bags under his eyes, a day’s growth of stubble on his chin and he hadn’t bothered to brush his hair.
‘We’ve got to get out,’ he said.
Scarlett stared at him. ‘What do you mean, get out?’
‘The brewery wants us gone. They’ve been holding the licence for us since your mum—’ He hesitated. Neither of them could bring themselves to say the word died. ‘But they won’t go on doing that for ever. They want a licensee on the premises to deal with any bother.’
Long ago when Scarlett had first learnt to read, she had asked why only her mother had her name above the pub door as licensee. She had been told that the brewery preferred to have a woman in charge and, since the brewery’s word was law as far as they were concerned, she had never really thought to question it.
‘But surely they wouldn’t mind having your name up there now,’ she said. ‘You’ve been here for years. Everyone likes you. They all say what a good landlord you are. The brewery must know that, surely? And I could help as much as possible. We can keep it going between us.’
‘It’s not as easy as that,’ her father said.
‘What do you mean?’
Victor sighed. He dropped his head in his hands and ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up on end. Fear wormed through Scarlett’s stomach. This was her dad. When things went wrong, her dad was always there with his cheery manner, making it all right again.
‘Oh, we don’t have to bother ourselves about a little old thing like that,’ he would say. ‘Worse things happen at sea.’ Or, ‘It’ll all come out in the wash.’ And generally he was right. Up till now, whatever life had thrown at them, they had coped. Surely he could solve whatever was worrying him this time?
‘I can’t hold a licence,’ he admitted.
Scarlett stared at him. ‘Why not?’ she demanded.
‘Because I can’t, all right?’
Fear fuelled the anger that had been simmering in her ever since her mother had died.
‘No, it isn’t all right! You say we’ve got to leave here, leave the Red Lion, because you can’t hold a licence?
I want to know why.’
‘Look, it’s best you don’t know.’
The anger boiled over, all the irrational resentment at what had happened, even at her mother for going and leaving them when they needed her so much.
‘I want to know! I’ve got to leave my home because of whatever it is. I’ve got a right to know!’
Victor rubbed his face and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Because—’ his voice came out as a croak ‘—oh, God, Scarlett, this is so hard. Worse than telling your mother—’
‘Go on!’ Scarlett raged.
Victor still wouldn’t look at her. ‘Because I’ve got a record,’ he admitted.
His whole body seemed to sag in defeat.
Scarlett did not understand at first. She gazed at her big strong dad, who used to throw her up in the air and catch her, who could move the heavy beer casks around the cellar with ease, who could down a yard of ale quicker than anyone. All at once he seemed somehow smaller.
‘A record? What do you mean? What sort of—?’ And then the truth dawned on her. ‘You mean a police record?’
She couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t true. Her dad wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was everyone’s friend. He could not possibly be a criminal.
Victor reached out to her. Instinctively, Scarlett went to the safety of his arms. She was folded into the comforting familiarity of his scratchy jumper, his pubby smell. She felt his voice vibrate through his chest as he struggled to answer her honestly.
‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’
Scarlett felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Her whole view of the world lurched, shifted and rearranged itself into a darker, more frightening picture.
‘What did you do?’ she whispered into his neck, as visions of robbery, of murder rose in her head. Desperately, she drove them down, hating herself for even entertaining such horrors.
‘Breaking and entering.’
A burglar. Her father was a burglar.
Bye Bye Love Page 2