Spring Will Be Ours

by Sue Gee

  ‘No, well, she wouldn’t, not exactly Mummy’s style, is it?’ Stan reached up and pushed glasses on to the shelves. ‘Should’ve done this sooner. Kevin’s rung in sick – very handy, he was fine at lunch-time. So it’s just you and me, on a Friday night. Think you can cope?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘That’s my girl. I’ve rung Barbara and left a message. Otherwise we’re lumbered.’

  ‘We’ll manage.’ Ewa turned to the couple who had just come up to the bar. ‘Yes, please?’

  ‘Gin and tonic for the lady, and a pint of Directors for me, please, my love.’ The man wore a pink shirt, was small and plump and pleased with himself. His blonde girlfriend – surely she could not be his girlfriend – looked past Ewa into the mirror behind the bar. ‘For the lady’ – Ewa felt a shiver of contempt, for the man who talked like that and for the girl who let him. When she had served them, she left Stan to look after the bar and went out into the garden with a tray.

  Russian vine and honeysuckle spilled over the fence; a string of lights hung from the back of the pub shone above scuffed grass. Ewa moved from table to table, collecting glasses. In the corner a young man with cropped fair hair and very long legs in jeans looked up and smiled as she rested the tray on the edge of the table.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello.’ Ewa remembered him from last week – he’d been inside, then, with a girl wrapped round him on one of the benches. Tonight he was with two friends, a girl with a slightly beaky nose and dark hair cut in a page boy, and a man with a kind, ordinary face, who held her hand. The one with the cropped fair hair, whose face was not kind or ordinary, was still smiling.

  ‘I saw you last week,’ he said. ‘And before that.’

  ‘Yes?’ Ewa reached for empty glasses.

  ‘D’you work here every Friday?’

  ‘Usually, yes.’

  ‘And Saturdays?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must remember that.’

  ‘Eve!’ Stan was bellowing from the doorway. ‘Are you staying out there all night? There’s people in here getting desperate.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Ewa picked up her tray and hurried back inside. The bar was filling up fast, and Stan had begun to sweat.

  ‘You’re supposed to be working, not chatting up the customers.’

  Ewa smiled sweetly. ‘I thought it was part of a barmaid’s job to chat up the customers. Anyway, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Come off it, Goody Twoshoes. You don’t doll yourself up like that for nothing. Now move!’

  Ewa moved, thinking briefly as she filled and set down glass after glass, and rang up the till, that there was no one she knew who talked to her in the way Stan did. He was like a comfortable father, a father who flirted, and bossed her about, but somehow did not patronize or upset her. She felt safe with him, even though he knew almost nothing about her. ‘That’s what you think,’ she could hear him saying, and giggled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Stan was reaching past her for the ice bucket.

  ‘You.’

  He snorted.

  By nine the whole pub was packed, the juke box so loud they could hardly hear the orders. One or two regulars who hadn’t moved from their bar seats since opening time had begun to glaze over; Ewa dealt with a forest of hands and pound notes.

  ‘I can’t get no-oh satisfaction …’

  Ewa, turning to measure two tots of gin, for a moment imagined the young man with the cropped fair hair moving through a crowded disco towards her, reaching out to pull her on to the floor. She put down the glasses, bent for two tonics, and saw him in the mirror when she stood up again, watching her. Her knees felt suddenly full of water; she tried to smile lightly, as if at any customer, but blushed. She turned back to the counter, putting gin and tonics carefully in front of the man who had ordered them; she took a pound and gave him his change, avoiding the eyes of the young man until he had moved right up to her and was the next customer, waiting.

  ‘Yes, please?’

  ‘Can I have two pints of bitter, and a lager and lime?’ He asked as if hoping she would give them as a particular favour. I should say No, certainly not, thought Ewa. That is how you flirt. Instead, she pulled the pints without speaking, and did not look at him in the mirror when she added the lime.

  ‘Six shillings and ten pence, please.’

  He felt in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Here … thank you.’ He had given her the right money; she put it in the till, turned back and found he was still there.

  ‘Is your name really Eve?’

  ‘Yes.’ She straightened the brewery mat on the bar, hating herself for being unable to look up at him. Then she did, and saw that he was half a head or more taller than anyone else there. His eyes were blue, with pale flecks, and his face tanned, as if he’d spent the afternoon lying in the sun. He looked, too, as if he might not have shaved today.

  ‘My name’s Leo.’

  Ewa nodded politely.

  ‘We’re going for a meal later. Would you like to come?’

  She would, she would, even though the thought made her nervous. But if Tata came and found she had gone, or if she had to explain to him that he needn’t have come, or had to introduce them all …

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but …’

  ‘Not kind. Please come.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. My father will be picking me up.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘We can see you home.’

  ‘No,’ said Ewa quickly. ‘It’s all right.’

  He put his hand on the bar, a long-fingered, suntanned hand, with bitten nails, and patted it, as if soothing a highly-strung horse. ‘Don’t be so jumpy.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Ewa felt his soothing pats insulting, over-intimate. And yet – wasn’t she being rude and gauche? Wasn’t he just trying to reassure her? She straightened the bar mat again, very carefully away from his long, stroking fingers, and then looked up at him again, because she had to, or look a fool, when he was still standing there. He smiled at her with such unexpected sweetness that her stomach did a nosedive, and she couldn’t think of anything at all, certainly nothing to say.

  ‘Two pints of bitter and a barley wine, please, love. If it’s not too much trouble.’ A large red-faced regular was tapping the bar impatiently.

  ‘Excuse me …’ said Ewa, both to the regular for not looking after him and to Leo, who was picking up his glasses.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he said, still smiling, and moved through the tables towards the garden door. Ewa, pulling the bitter, watched him go: he walked gracefully, confidently, and the image of him coming towards her across the crowded disco floor flashed into her mind again. She was moving towards him – no, she was waiting for him to come and reach out to her, take her by both hands and pull her close …

  ‘Watch it,’ said Stan, behind her.

  Ewa flicked back the beer-pump handle and carefully lifted the glasses on to the bar.

  ‘There – that’ll be …’

  ‘And the barley wine,’ the regular reminded her.

  ‘Oh, yes …’

  When he had paid her, and taken the drinks, Ewa turned to Stan, stacking bottles in the floor crate. ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘I said something,’ said Stan, straightening up. ‘And you know very well why.’

  Ewa attended to her customers.

  Behind Jan the unlit length of the office stretched twenty shadowy feet into darkness, shrouding the empty chairs, and the great pale squares of the plans on the drawing boards. Into the silence, the telephone began to ring; he lit a cigarette and moved to answer it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re still there,’ said Anna. ‘You know you’re collecting Ewa tonight?’

  He had forgotten. ‘Yes, of course. I was just about to leave.’

  ‘Jan – it’s well after ten.’

  ‘I said, I’m just leaving.’

  ‘Well … it’s just that we had a disagreement before she left.’ ‘Oh?’
/>   ‘About her appearance.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Anna gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Oh, oh. Is that all you can say?’

  He took a deep puff of his cigarette. ‘You haven’t told me what’s happened.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if I did.’

  ‘Then why have you phoned me?’

  ‘Oh, never mind! I’d better not keep you. Go on – go and fetch her and see for yourself. I’ll see you later.’

  The telephone clicked, and buzzed. Jan replaced the receiver, took another puff, walked back to his drawing board and put the cap on his pen. He would come in and finish off tomorrow. Sunday, too, if necessary. He switched off the anglepoise, and at the door turned out the overhead neon strip, too. Then he walked along the passage to the shallow flight of stairs, and ran down.

  In the hall, the night watchman was sitting in his cubbyhole, reading the Evening News.

  ‘I was just coming up there,’ he said. ‘Did you switch off?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jan. ‘Goodnight. See you tomorrow.’

  The watchman shook his head. ‘Why don’t you move in?’

  Jan hurried out, across the empty car park and on to the main road. He walked quickly, looking back every now and then to see if the bus was coming; when he saw it, he ran ahead to the stop, feeling his chest burn and his heart pound. He got on, climbed to the top deck and lit another cigarette. Impossible now for him and Anna to have the briefest exchange without the tension rising. What was he supposed to have said?

  The bus stopped before the Clapham clock tower and he got off. It was warm, and the air smelt of beer and the chip papers littering the pavement. Pubs emptied noisily; he sidestepped giggling girls in mini-skirts, and the boys who followed them, and walked across the dusty city grass of the common, past the bordering trees, orange from the street lamps, the black gleam of the pond. He cut through side streets, passing drawn curtains and the dark shapes of cats on small front garden walls.

  I have failed my family, he thought, and at once refused to think of it further, crossing into the network of quiet, expensive houses where Ewa’s pub stood on a corner, lights shining between the leaves of the creeper at the front, and in a string across the garden. At the saloon door he hesitated, preparing for Ewa’s cool nod in his direction, and the wait, while she finished her work and ignored him. The door swung open, and two young men came out, laughing; they brushed past him as he stood on the pavement.

  ‘Closing time, mate, what’re you waiting for?’

  Jan went up to the door and pushed it open, blinking in the light and seeing behind the bar a girl who must be Ewa but who did not look as if she could be anything to do with him. She was slender and dark, hair falling to her shoulders instead of coiled up as she often wore it, her face and lips very pale, her eyes enormous. Leaning on the bar was a tall boy in denims, his fair hair cropped short, his eyes following every quick deft move that Ewa made, as she rinsed and wiped glasses and mugs, stretched up to replace them on the shelves. He was asking her something, and she shook her head, turning to straighten the bottles at the back, her reflection splintered in the mirror all along the wall. From where he stood, Jan thought he had caught her eye there, just for a moment, but then she looked down and methodically tidied the small bottles of Bols, Worcestershire sauce, cherries. She turned, flipped up the bar top and walked out towards the garden, carrying a tray. Her skirt was shorter than any he had seen on the giggling girls out in the street: how could Anna have let her come out like that? The tall boy in the denims went out after her – she was leading him away, so that he need not meet her father? Jan sat down at a corner table, and waited.

  ‘Come along now, please!’ Stan was moving among the tables, wiping them down, emptying the ashtrays into a bucket. He nodded to Jan. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  ‘Busy night?’ Jan asked politely.

  ‘Very. The usual boy off sick, and my other girl out. Eve’s been great, of course.’

  Eve? Did he usually call her that?

  ‘Ewa,’ said Jan.

  ‘Sorry?’ Stan banged a metal ashtray into the bucket and wiped under the beer mats.

  ‘Her name is Ewa.’

  ‘Course it is. Ay-vah – I get muddled, all these girls.’ He winked at Jan, who did not wink back. ‘They come and they go. Not many like her, though. You must be proud.’

  ‘You have a daughter?’ Jan asked stiffly, and felt the shape of his own father settle over him as he asked. I sound a generation older than this man, he thought: I am as ill at ease as you might expect a grandfather to be in here. It is absurd.

  ‘Son in the army,’ said Stan. ‘Next time he’s on leave I’ll introduce them. Don’t worry, I’m only joking.’ He picked up the bucket and walked back to the bar, where he switched off the wall lights. Now there were only the small lights over the mirror, and the glow of the juke box, which hummed.

  ‘Time now, please!’

  The last few customers straggled out, banging the swing door, and Stan went into the garden. ‘Come on, you lot!’

  Ewa is part of the ‘lot’, thought Jan. She has worked here for less than six months, and this barman is more at ease with her than I have ever been. Laughter came through the garden door, and he got up, and walked past the humming juke box and the bar, down the little linoleum passage leading outside.

  ‘She knows a big bad wolf when she sees one, that’s why,’ Stan was saying.

  ‘Who, me?’ The tall fair boy was standing with his hand on Ewa’s shoulder: she looked happy, excited, embarrassed. Very young. No younger than Anna had been, but Anna had been in army uniform, without a trace of make-up. Perhaps she had been as shy.

  ‘You can come too, if you want,’ the boy said to Stan. ‘Just to keep an eye.’

  ‘She’s got someone inside who’ll do that,’ Stan said. ‘Dad’s here, darling.’

  ‘What?’ Ewa moved quickly away from the suntanned hand on her shoulder. ‘I’d better go …’ She moved towards the doorway, saw Jan standing there, and froze. ‘Tata?’

  He stepped forward. ‘I was just coming to fetch you …’

  ‘I’m coming. I’m coming.’ She said it quietly, angrily, turned to the others. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Night, Eve. Sorry – Ayvah. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ She did not look at the boy, but brushed past Jan and stalked along the passage to the bar. He nodded to the two men in the garden, and then followed her inside, where she was taking her money from the till. She pushed the drawer shut hard, and bent to pick up her bag from the floor. When she stood up he saw that the thick black make-up round her eyes was smudged and streaky.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  She didn’t answer, just reached for her jacket and pulled it on, then came out and walked to the door without looking at him or looking to see if he were behind as it swung to. He hurried after her, touched her elbow. She shook him off, and her bag banged against him.

  ‘Ewa …’

  ‘You were spying on me.’ Her voice broke.

  ‘Of course I wasn’t.’

  ‘You were. Hovering in the dark, checking up on me. Why couldn’t you have waited? Why the hell do you have to come at all?’

  ‘Ewa! Do you speak to your grandfather like this when he fetches you?’

  She didn’t answer, striding ahead until they were out of the quiet streets with their creeper-covered houses, and on the main road. Chairs were being stacked on tables in the fish and chip shop; lights went off behind the plate glass of the furniture stores, over the three-piece suites, the double beds with plastic headboards, the fun-fur animals whose heads you took off to put in your dirty clothes. Jan saw a car slow down beside his daughter, still ahead; he saw the dark shape of a man turning inside to get a better look, and ran to catch up with her. The car drove on, and he saw that Ewa was still crying.

  If he spoke she would bite his head off. If he touched her again she would shake him off. They reached the bottom of their own long street, where voi
ces shouted, car doors banged. Ewa fumbled in her bag; Jan reached into his pocket and passed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose and passed it back to him.

  ‘Keep it,’ said Jan.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ He stopped, and caught hold of her wrist. ‘That is enough, do you understand? You are being rude and ridiculous.’

  Ewa wrenched her hand away. ‘Don’t touch me!’

  ‘What is the matter with you? You liked that boy? Why couldn’t you introduce him to me? You want to think that I was spying on you because it pleases your sense of melodrama, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s not true. You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I don’t understand why you are dressed and made up like a … like a street girl. Or why you change your name there. Your boss seems to think you’re called Eve.’

  ‘So what? That’s the English.’

  ‘But why not keep the Polish?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because it is a beautiful name. And because you’re Polish.’

  ‘Oh, Polish, Polish, Polish! I am eighteen, Tata. I’m not living in Warsaw thirty years ago, I’m living here. If you and Mama and the grandparents want to shut yourselves off from this country, that’s your problem. You’ve shut yourself off from all of us, too, haven’t you? You’re never at home, Jerzy is scared to death of you, none of us know who you are. And as far as I’m concerned, it can stay like that.’

  She was off again, paces ahead of him, and as he followed, no longer hurrying, he looked up to see Anna, waiting at their window, the curtain drawn back. She dropped it, and he knew she would be going to open the flat door, realizing from the distance between them that he and Ewa had quarrelled. There would be another scene.

  Ewa had reached the front door, and was pressing the intercom. He heard the answering buzz and saw her push open the door and disappear inside, leaving it to close again. He reached it too late, and pressed the button.

  ‘Yes? What is going on?’

  ‘Ewa will tell you,’ said Jan, and heard Anna sigh. The buzzer sounded again, and he let himself in, Ewa’s footsteps loud on the stairs above him, and Anna’s voice, asking again: ‘What’s happened?’