Barbara’s voice came from the other side of the serving hatch. ‘Are those sandwiches ready yet? They seem to have taken ages.’
Mavis chuckled. ‘That’s my fault. I’ve been chatting too much and distracting the cook.’
‘That’s all very well, Ma, but I’ve got hungry customers here.’
‘Sorry, Barbara, it won’t be long.’ Joyce quickly popped back to layering the bread with egg.
Joyce moved her hands down the front of her apron. ‘We could do a stew in the winter. That would be easy to put on the range and just put so many spoonfuls onto the customer’s plates, or we could make some vegetable soup as well.’
‘Should we think about summer meals?’ Mavis put a finger to her lips and tapped away gently. ‘I’m not sure salads would be a good idea. Do you think they would get eaten?’
Joyce shrugged. ‘I suppose we could always put one on the tariff and see how it goes. I expect it’ll be a case of trying different dishes until we know what’s popular.’ She paused. ‘There’s always a meatloaf or meat and vegetable pie; we just need to think about it, but I do agree doing fried breakfasts all day and sandwiches is quite hard work for very little return.’
Mavis nodded. ‘We need dishes that can be prepared in advance and that would save you being rushed off your feet. I’m not saying don’t do breakfast as well but only until a certain time, say about eleven o’clock, and then move to a lunch tariff or something.’
Joyce smiled. ‘This is music to my ears. I did speak to Simon about changing it a little but we never got any further than talking about it. Although he was open to adding other things he really wanted to keep the breakfast as part of the Meet and Feast Café.’
‘All right, maybe we can give it some thought and then move forward, as I think it’s a good idea.’ Mavis walked out into the café and looked around. She stood there for a while watching people eat and looking at the empty walls. Again, she kept her fingers on her lips before returning to the kitchen. ‘How would you feel about putting one of Simons paintings on the wall? I think there’s room and we could even put a price on it. Wouldn’t that be fabulous if he came back and he had an outlet for his paintings?’
‘What a wonderful idea. I’m not sure Simon will see it that way but I certainly think it’s a good idea.’
Barbara waltzed into the kitchen. ‘What’s a good idea?’
Mavis smiled. ‘I’ve suggested we put one of Simon’s paintings on the wall in the café.’
Barbara shook her head. ‘What is it with you and Simon’s paintings? I know you think they’re good but not everyone would agree.’
Mavis shrugged. ‘Well, we won’t know until they’re put on show and then we’ll see who’s got the wrong idea.’
Joyce’s gaze wandered between mother and daughter and she wondered who would win this discussion. ‘Your mother was also talking about changing the tariff a little bit.’ She paused, wondering how far to go. ‘What do you think?’
Barbara glared at Joyce. ‘Is this your doing? Is this your way of trying to take over my father’s café, the very thing Simon has worked so hard to keep going in his memory?’
Joyce opened her mouth to speak but Mavis got there first.
‘This is my idea so you need to be very careful, my girl. We’ll discuss this when we get home, but I can tell you I’ll not have you throwing your weight around and undermining all the hard work that has been done in trying to keep this café going for your father.’
Joyce picked up the plate of egg sandwiches and made a hasty exit from the kitchen.
*
Rose closed one eye as she threaded the sewing needle with the fine white cotton. After running her finger and thumb down the two strands of sewing thread, she tied a small knot at the end. Pinning the needle through the collar of her pale blue blouse, she glanced down at the white material in front of her. Rose ran her hands over it, smoothing out where she had to sew while enjoying the touch of the soft silkiness of it. The Lyceum sewing room table was covered in different-coloured threads, lace, sequins and fine pearl buttons. She picked up a piece of fine lace and began cutting round the flowers that made up its delicate pattern. One by one she layered the flowers flat on the table ready to be sewn onto the white fabric. It was a painstaking job but she had to be careful; this dress was too important to rush.
The sound of heels hitting the tiled floor in the corridor caught Rose’s attention. She looked up at the doorway hoping whoever it was would carry on walking by. Instead the door swung open. Rose could feel a sigh gathering momentum, as she expected to see Annie there.
‘What are you doing, Miss Spencer?’
Rose panicked as she took in Miss Hetherington’s dour expression. She quickly gathered all the sequins and the buttons and put them in a heap, while carefully laying the lace flowers on top of each other. ‘I’m just sorting through a few bits and pieces, Miss Hetherington.’
Miss Hetherington glared at Rose. ‘Are you indeed? Since when have we needed to have flowers cut out from an already beautiful piece of lace?’
Rose’s face paled as she looked down at the sewing table. ‘I was just trying something out with this piece that was too short to use for anything.’
Miss Hetherington stepped nearer. ‘And the white material?’
Rose cleared her throat as the smell of carbolic soap overwhelmed her. ‘All right, I admit to experimenting with something.’
Miss Hetherington walked around the table. ‘And is this for the production?’
‘No, Miss Hetherington.’
Miss Hetherington’s eyes narrowed. ‘And yet you are here doing it in The Lyceum’s sewing room. Does that sound right to you?’
Rose shook her head. ‘No, Miss Hetherington, but I am doing it in my own time.’
‘And does that make it right?’
Rose closed her eyes; she knew that Miss Hetherington was not going to let this go. ‘No, Miss Hetherington, it doesn’t but at least I’m not using the time that is meant for the production.’
‘And are you up to date with the costume repairs?’ Miss Hetherington leant in and scooped up the white material. ‘This feels expensive. I trust this isn’t from the theatre; after all, I’d hate to have to sack you for stealing.’ Her eyes lit up as she stared at Rose.
Rose stood up, catching a faint whiff of Miss Hetherington’s lavender scent. ‘How dare you. I have never stolen anything from this theatre.’
Miss Hetherington frowned. ‘But if this lace comes from a length that was bought for a costume then you are stealing.’
Rose folded her arms. ‘It was in the bin to be thrown out, so I assumed you had put it there.’
‘You assumed correctly but until it leaves the theatre it is still stealing.’
Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I’ve ever done to you, Miss Hetherington, except work hard – and I wasn’t aware that was a crime – and yet you clearly dislike me.’
Jane Hetherington smiled. ‘You haven’t done anything.’ She paused. ‘I just don’t like you, or the way you have managed to get a job without coming through me. You think you are so clever but you’re not.’
Rose let herself fall down onto the chair at the sewing table. ‘Is that it? Is that all it took?’ She shook her head. ‘If I recall you weren’t around when you were needed. When Kitty’s outfit needed repairing Annie and I were the only two in here. I know we shouldn’t have been but we saved the day, we saved you and your job, and for that you are making my life hell.’
Jane Hetherington pulled back her shoulders and thrust out her chin. ‘You need to watch your mouth; otherwise you will be out of a job.’
Rose chuckled as she shook her head. ‘Trust me when I say having older brothers I could use much stronger language, but I was brought up to be better behaved than that. You do know that if I left now you would have to remember what it is like to pick up a sewing needle and have sore fingers every day so maybe it should be you who thinks about what you say before openi
ng your mouth. Girls don’t want to earn what they deem to be a pittance sewing when they can earn five pound a week or more working in the munitions factory.’
Miss Hetherington glared at her. ‘And yet you are still here.’
Rose scowled. ‘Yes, I am, but you don’t make it easy to stay. I’m here because I like to sew and I’m good at it. It’s not about the money as long as I’ve got enough to live on.’
Miss Hetherington dropped the white material back on to the table.
Rose shook her head. ‘You know, it’s clearly all beyond me. Shouldn’t we all be giving thanks that so far we haven’t had to deal with the bombs and deaths that other countries have, let alone the poison gas that our own men have been subject to on the front line? Then there’s the sinking of the Lusitania where over a thousand people died, and yet all you can think to do is tell me off for cutting flowers out of a piece of lace that was in the bin.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to you in your life but you have no feelings for what people may be going through.’ She sighed. ‘I do believe you may have actually won. Maybe it is time I moved on.’
Miss Hetherington’s eyes widened. ‘That won’t be necessary, but in future watch your mouth and make sure you ask permission first.’ She turned and marched out of the room before Rose could say any more.
Rose rested her head in her hands for a moment.
‘How is it going, Rose?’ Kitty stopped short. ‘Is everything all right?’
Rose smiled. ‘Yes, Kitty, just Miss Hetherington. Need I say more?’
Kitty frowned. ‘Try not to let the silly old bat get you down. She’s not worth it. I’m sure if Stan wasn’t as nice as he is she would have got the sack a long time ago.’
Rose shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t want her to be out of work; I just don’t understand her.’ She pulled the white fabric nearer to her.
Kitty clapped her hands together and beamed at Rose. ‘Ahh, this is what I wanted to see. I’m getting excited about my wedding day now.’
Rose laughed. ‘Well, that’s good because you are meant to be.’ She picked up one of the delicate flowers she had been cutting round. ‘I thought I’d see what these looked like sewn on your dress with either a little pearl or sequin sewn in the middle of it. What do you think?’ Kitty stared down at it as Rose placed a pearl on one and a sequin on another. ‘Or we could have a mixture of them both.’
Kitty giggled. ‘I tell you what: I feel like a schoolgirl again. I love them both so I’ll leave it to you.’
*
Simon lay still in his hospital bed, listening to the groans coming from around the ward; they were occasionally drowned out by the nurses and doctors talking to patients. He knew his injuries were minor compared to the poor man in the bed opposite – he had heard talk he may not make it – but Simon wondered what his future would hold. His legs felt quite useless. Every time he tried to move them pain shot through him and the doctor had said it would be a while before he could walk again unaided, if he ever did.
He sighed and looked out of the rain-splattered window, grateful to the nurses who had moved his bed slightly so he could see the quadrangle below. He stared out into the greyness at the comings and goings; so many people were in and out of the hospital. Gasping, Simon watched a brown-haired girl approaching the hospital, clutching the hand of a small boy. His heart jumped in his chest, while his stomach did a somersault. His face screwed up as he tried to move to get a better view, but the pain got too much. He groaned as he slumped back down, thumping the bedcovers with his fists. He felt sure that was Joyce; he needed to get a closer look. Had his mother told her he was at the hospital, despite him saying he didn’t want anyone to know? Is that why she was here, to visit him? A surge of excitement ran through him. He frowned, as he immediately chased it away. He wasn’t ready to see her.
An old man walked down between the beds, carrying a bundle of newspapers in his arms. ‘Can I interest you in today’s paper, sir?’
Simon shook his head.
The old man went to walk away.
‘Wait, I’m sorry, my answer should have been no, thank you.’
The old man gave a toothless grin. ‘Don’t worry, laddie, no one expects you to be on your best behaviour at this time.’ The man nodded and walked on to the next bed. ‘Can I offer you a newspaper, sir?’
Simon gritted his teeth and pushed himself up a little to peer out of the window again. He regretted not writing to her, but he hadn’t known what to say. When she turned down his proposal and wasn’t at the café the next morning he had assumed she didn’t feel the same after all. He hadn’t asked his mother whether Joyce had carried on working, let alone kept the café running. He was too scared. Too frightened to admit he had lost the woman he loved, and without her nothing else mattered. He was now no longer in a position to provide and care for her; he had no desire to be another burden on her time. Spotting her again, Simon watched Joyce stoop down to talk to the child. She kept looking round as though she was waiting for someone. A man came rushing out and almost ran into her.
Simon, tried to get nearer to the window, his face screaming the pain his voice wasn’t letting out. He stared intently. Was that the journalist from the café? Was that the man doing the article on Joyce’s cooking, on her winning the prize for her cake baking? Simon watched them, wishing he could get a closer look, or better still, go downstairs and find out what was going on. Gasping, Simon shook his head as the man put his arm around her shoulders. Jealousy travelled through his war-torn body, adding to his helplessness. Had he lost her forever? Had he lost her because of his own inability to write and to say he was sorry for burdening her with his proposal?
His throat tightened as he watched Joyce step away and they both walked into the hospital with the boy. Simon closed his eyes, the tears pricked like sharp needles behind his eyelids. How he wished he hadn’t been such a coward and had spoken up sooner before their lives had been turned upside down by war and family events.
‘Are you all right, Simon?’ A nurse stood to the side of the bed watching him. ‘You look a little pale. I thought you looked better this morning, brighter, but I’m not so sure now.’
Simon opened his eyes and turned to look at the nurse. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I’m sure things will be better when I can get on my feet again.’
The nurse gave a faint smile. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll keep you in bed for any longer than they have to; just follow their instructions and you’ll soon be out of here. And, don’t forget the good news.’
Simon frowned. ‘The good news?’
The nurse picked up the jug of water on top of the bedside cabinet; she peered inside before putting it back with a thud. ‘Yes, it’s important to focus on the good news because there isn’t much of it around. You’ll definitely be able to walk again, especially if you do as you’re told and exercise as much as you can. The more you do the quicker you’ll improve. It will be painful at first but you have to be strong, and the really good news is you won’t have to go off and fight again. You’ll be able to pick up your life again. Admittedly, things won’t be the same because of the things you’ve gone through and you’ll have a limp. You may even need a walking stick for a while but at least you’ll be alive and relatively well.’
Simon turned his head to look back out of the window. ‘Doesn’t mean much if you can’t be with the person you love the most.’
The nurse shook her head. ‘Does the person you love the most know you are here?’
Simon stayed silent for a moment. ‘No, I don’t want her to know yet. She has enough problems without me adding to them.’ He paused. ‘Besides, she may not want me in her life. I’ve just seen her out the window with another man.’
The nurse tightened her lips for a second. ‘Remember things aren’t always as they seem; you need to talk to her, find out from her what’s going on. Don’t let your imagination lead you astray. Find out the facts before you throw it all away.’
Simon nodded
. What he’d seen seemed pretty conclusive to him but he kept his thoughts to himself. He had already said too much.
The nurse pulled the grey blanket straight and tugged in the edges. ‘Now, I shall be back soon to change your dressings and give you the medication the doctors said you had to take.’
16
Joyce gripped Philip’s hand as they stood outside St Thomas’ Hospital, the building towering high above their heads. She stooped down in front of the worried-looking five-year-old. ‘I want you to remember what we’ve talked about, how Grandma is going to look like she’s asleep, so she won’t be able to answer when we talk to her.’ She watched his fear grow. ‘It’s nothing to worry about and we’ll talk to her as though she’s wide awake, all right?’
Philip nodded.
Joyce ran her fingers through his soft hair, curling it around her fingers; maybe she’d have to try taking the scissors to it. ‘One of the nurses told me they believe she can understand and hear what we’re saying; she just can’t answer us.’
Philip was watching Joyce with wide eyes. He glanced at the glass doors in front of them. ‘How can she hear me but not answer?’
Joyce closed her eyes for a split second. ‘I’m not sure, Philip, but it’s as though she’s in a deep sleep. Anyway, if she can hear us we need to make sure we say all the things we want her to know.’ She paused. ‘We might want to tell her that we love her or how happy we are, or unhappy, but either way we should just talk to her normally.’ She glanced up and down the street; she felt sure someone was watching her. Joyce shook her head. She was just being fanciful. ‘I don’t want you to worry about it, and I’ll be with you so there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Philip frowned. ‘I’m not afraid. Frank told me I had to grow up and stop acting like a baby.’
Joyce stooped down and wrapped her arms around Philip. ‘Don’t you worry about anything Frank says. You’re five years old. It’s more important that you say what you want and then we can talk about it. That way we can deal with things as they come up.’
Big Dreams for the West End Girls Page 23
