She didn’t know when the Saturday evenings in front of the telly had started. It must have been about the time they moved onto the Greenway estate. Before that, in the flat on the other side of town, they’d only had the radio. Now, when everyone was in and her dad wasn’t too drunk and her mum had been able to buy eggs, they all gathered in the living room to watch the football results. She and Doreen sat on the floor and her mum and dad sat in the armchairs. Mum looked happy and Dad didn’t seem so angry with the world. On those nights they had tea on their laps; Dad made the toast, big thick slices and lots of marge with a fried egg on top, and Mum built up the fire so the room was really hot. Angie would bite into the toast, and she would see the imprint of her teeth in the margarine. Sometimes they had a cake for afters, cut thin, to make it last. Fruit cake was Angie’s favourite, with its sweet sultanas and glacé cherries.
Angie wasn’t interested in football. Nothing could bore her more. But this hour at tea-time on a Saturday had little to do with football. It was about numbers. During the season her dad held the pools coupon that he and Mum had completed in the week, and as they were eating, he checked the results on the TV against the copy of the coupon they’d filled in and handed to Reg, their pools collector. Once, a few years before, Dad had won ten pounds and they had all gone out to the pub after the results had finished and had a drink. She and Doreen had had lemonade and a packet of crisps, Mum had had port and lemon, and Dad had a glass of beer and a shot of whisky. ‘Good will to all men,’ he had said, as he threw the whisky down his throat. He had told jokes and made them all laugh and it was just like Christmas. Angie couldn’t imagine what it would be like to win the jackpot.
Saturday evenings were always full of hope and happiness. Even when they didn’t get the results they wanted, there was always next week to look forward to. And tonight it was Christmas Eve, which made everything even more special. She ran upstairs and quickly wrapped her recent purchases in the sparkling paper she had bought from the newsagent’s.
When she came downstairs her dad was ticking off the results as they were announced in the sing-song voice of the announcer. ‘No,’ her dad was saying. ‘No.’ At the end he screwed up the coupon and threw it on the fire. ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘I had a bet on with a bloke in the pub that I wouldn’t win anything tonight. And I didn’t, so he owes me a drink.’
‘Was he drunk?’ Doreen said. She looked at Angie and they laughed quietly.
‘That’s enough sauce,’ he said. ‘I’ll just finish my cup of tea, and then I’m off out.’
Angie enjoyed this part of the evening too, when Dad heaved himself out of his chair, put on his cap and scarf and banged out of the kitchen. The atmosphere lightened. Mum pulled a bar of chocolate out of her bag and handed round a square each. Doreen slid into Dad’s chair and Angie made a fresh pot of tea. With Dad out of the house it was time for Juke Box Jury. They guessed at which way the jury would vote. Angie usually got the jurors’ verdicts right, even when she didn’t agree with them.
As the programme ended Doreen asked, ‘Angie, what time are you going out? Who’s having the first bath?’
‘Well, Roger’s coming round at seven,’ Angie said. ‘So me first. That’ll give you time to wrap up my Christmas present.’
‘Ha ha,’ Doreen said. ‘For your information, it’s already wrapped.’
‘Ooh!’
‘Roger’s such a nice boy,’ Mum said. ‘I like him.’
‘I know you do,’ Angie said.
‘You want to be careful and hang on to him,’ Doreen said pointedly.
‘Thanks for your advice.’ Angie made a face. She knew Doreen was thinking about the kiss in the boutique. ‘What happened to that bloke you were seeing? Dave, was it?’ she said, changing the subject before Doreen said anything more.
‘I finished with Dave months ago,’ Doreen sighed. ‘If you mean Barry, we’ve decided not to see each other anymore. His wife doesn’t like it.’ She laughed.
‘Doreen!’ Mum said.
‘It was nothing serious,’ Doreen said. ‘He hardly even held my hand.’
‘I bet,’ said Angie.
‘Anyway, Janice and I are going for a drink at the Angel. It’s going to be a great night tonight – I don’t think! Janice is having trouble with her boyfriend. Expect me home about half past eight.’
They all laughed.
Mrs Smith settled herself into her armchair and broke off another piece of chocolate. ‘Well, hurry up and get going. My programme’s coming on.’
‘Oh God, it’s Billy Cotton,’ Angie said.
She and Doreen ran out of the room.
CHAPTER 3
THREE WEEKS LATER, DOREEN STILL COULDN’T stop think-ing about Angie and the kiss from that old man in the boutique. Christmas kiss? Yes, that was likely. Any excuse. Doreen knew about men like him. And she knew from the way Angie had talked about it that Angie had thought it was the most exciting thing in the world. Doreen wasn’t a square, but this couldn’t go on. She of all people knew where it would lead. And it wasn’t sweet love and romance.
She’d been a bit younger than Angie when she and Janice had dared each other to enter the Carnival Queen contest. It had been a bit disappointing that Janice was voted the actual Carnival Queen, but it was Doreen’s smile that had caught the eye of the photographer. On Carnival Day they’d both worn white dresses with full skirts, white shoes and white gloves. It was really sunny. They waved at the crowds and a few boys wolf-whistled. It had all been lovely.
She remembered it like it was yesterday. The bloke who took the photos of them in their Carnival dresses, had offered to take some pictures of her. They were nice pictures, all very decent. Just her wearing her tight pink Capri pants and her tight blue sweater. ‘To show off your assets,’ he’d said – dirty bugger – but he was a good sort, and he hadn’t tried anything. She’d had to kiss him and go to the flicks with him, otherwise she’d have had to pay the full twenty-five quid, but that was OK.
Once she had the photos she just knew she had to do something with them. Add them to your portfolio, he’d said. Portfolio. Sometimes, she used to say the word ‘portfolio’ out loud because it sounded so professional and impressive. ‘I have a portfolio.’ She knew she should send them somewhere, to the telly. She could do that, go on telly. ‘Good evening and welcome to tonight’s edition of Tonight.’ Her teeth were good enough and she had her smile.
The photographer had given her telephone numbers. They looked magical and strange. At the time she couldn’t imagine standing in a phone box and dialling. But this was her chance, and so she had made the call and left the phone box with an address.
She was still at school then. That day she’d said she was ill. Then when Mum and Dad had gone out to work and Angie had left for school, she’d jumped out of bed, put on her make-up, more than she usually would, and went up to London. She would never forget that day.
*
It was a lovely day, really hot and sunny. The streets were so busy, everyone rushing around like mad. They all seemed to have somewhere to go. And so did she! It wasn’t hard to find the address the lady on the phone, Mrs Treadwell, had given her. ‘Just off Kings Road!’ she’d said. It was a doorway between two shops. Doreen went up the stairs. Along a landing was a door with a sign saying ‘Sylvester Raymond studios.’ Doreen tapped on the door.
A woman’s voice called, ‘Come in!’
The room was small and seemed to be filled with chairs and cigarette smoke. Even though it was 10.30 in the morning the room was dark and the light was on. A middle-aged woman in a cardigan was sitting behind a battered table, smoking. ‘Hello dear,’ she said. Doreen recognised her voice as the woman on the phone. ‘Have you come to have your photo taken?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. I’ve brought my photos.’ She held out the folder.
‘He won’t need those,’ Mrs Treadwell said. ‘That will be two guineas please.’
Doreen frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
> ‘Two guineas.’
Doreen was still frowning.
‘Mr Raymond is a very talented man. Two pounds two shillings is a small price to pay.’ Mrs Treadwell looked expectantly at Doreen.
Doreen took two pound notes and some sixpences from her purse, and laid them on the table. She had less than half a crown left.
Mrs Treadwell scraped the money into her hand. ‘Sit over there.’ The phone began to ring and she answered it. ‘Sylvester Raymond studios.’
There was another girl sitting on one of the hard chairs, reading a tattered magazine. Doreen smiled. The girl shook her head. ‘Don’t try and be friendly. Nobody wants to be friends.’
Doreen sat still, looking straight ahead, her stomach churning, wishing she could think of something cutting to say. She noticed that the girl didn’t have a portfolio with her.
‘I’ll take you up to the studio,’ Mrs Treadwell said. They climbed another floor. It didn’t look like the studio Doreen had imagined, with lights and movement and people bringing the photographer a cup of coffee. It looked like a dirty empty room. There was no carpet or lino, just bare floorboards, and no curtains at the windows, just smears and a faint view of more dirty windows in grey buildings. At the far end of the room a man was fiddling with a camera.
Mrs Treadwell said, ‘You can change in there.’ She pointed to an open door.
Doreen could see a grey-green wall and part of a toilet seat. ‘Change into what?’
‘What have you got?’
‘You don’t have to change into anything,’ the man said. He waved Mrs Treadwell out of the room. The door closed with a click. ‘Just take your clothes off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on darling, we haven’t got all day. Why don’t I help you off with your coat?’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
He put the coat on a grubby sofa behind her. He was looking her up and down. He leaned forward. ‘Just relax. You’ve got a nice figure. Let’s have a little kiss first, to get you in the mood.’ He put his arm round her shoulder and pulled her towards him.
‘You what!’ she said. She almost laughed. She’d read about this; she’d seen this in films. She knew what was going on. First he’d want to kiss her. Then he’d want to see her in the nude. And then what? In this horrible dirty room in London, on this filthy sofa? No! No!
She pushed him away. ‘Stop it!’ she said.
But he didn’t. His grip on her shoulder tightened and his other arm was sliding on to her breast. He pressed his leg against hers so that she lost her footing. He was pushing her back towards the sofa. She was tripping and stumbling. She called out. Surely Mrs Treadwell would hear! The man’s bear-like hand came over her mouth, squeezing her cheeks together. She could smell petrol and cigarettes and another sweet smell that she’d never smelt before. She kicked her legs and knocked over a chair with a clatter. Someone must have heard that! Nobody came and she slipped and slithered as he pushed her towards the sofa. She brought up an arm and punched him on the back but he just laughed. ‘You’re a bit feisty, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘What do you girls fucking expect? Except a bit of fucking?’ He laughed at his own joke and slid a finger into her mouth.
She bit down hard on to his finger. Again and again. She tasted blood in her mouth. Then he was swearing and pulling his hand away. She was spitting, getting the taste of him out of her mouth, breathing hard. He stared at his finger unbelieving. ‘I’m a fucking photographer! I use my fucking hands!’ he shouted and lunged at her. She slid to the side so that he crashed onto the sofa on to her coat and her precious portfolio. For half a second she looked at it, but then as he began stumbling to his feet she ran to the door. It wouldn’t open. It was locked. At the top of the door she saw the Yale lock. She turned it and flew down the stairs.
Mrs Treadwell was calmly typing at her desk. The other girl had disappeared. Doreen stared at Mrs Treadwell, wanting a kind word, an understanding smile, but Mrs Treadwell simply shook her head and murmured, ‘You young girls, you just waste his time.’ Tears streaming down her face, Doreen ran out on to the landing, down the stairs and out into the street.
On the train on the way home Doreen was furious with herself. She was nearly sixteen. How could she have been taken in? That awful man, with his thinning hair and big belly. And she couldn’t get the taste out of her mouth. Two guineas! That was almost all her savings. And that girl she’d sat next to in the waiting room, she obviously knew what was going on. Why didn’t she say anything?
She stared at her reflection in the small mirror in her compact. God, she looked awful, tear stains on her cheeks. She smiled at herself, a fake smile but she saw the pretty Princess from the Carnival, her blonde bouffant hair, like Brigitte Bardot, her almond eyes and her full lips. She repaired her make-up, tidied her hair and lifted her chin.
London wasn’t what she’d imagined. She blamed Frankie Vaughan. He had that song, ‘Kisses Sweeter Than Wine.’ She’d imagined Frankie Vaughan sitting in the secluded corner of an elegant bar, or in an expensive flat, sitting on a comfortable couch, wearing an expensive suit, with a bow tie, suavely kissing gorgeously dressed women. She’d seen herself, going to London, having some nice photos taken, and then she would find herself sitting with Frankie on velvet cushions. Instead she was sitting on the scratchy seat on the train, with no portfolio, no money, and no coat. But she was on her way back to Chelmsford, where she knew who was who and what was what. In Chelmsford she knew how to behave, who to avoid. In Chelmsford she knew who she was.
*
No point thinking about that now . . . In the end, Doreen supposed, that episode had taught her a lot. She picked up her bag, left the house and got into her car. She loved her car. It was second hand, a little Hillman. But it went, on the whole, and it was turquoise. She could change the tyres and, if necessary, she could deal with the starting motor and of course, she could put in petrol and check the oil. Having a car was great. It opened horizons and made her feel powerful. Her mum and dad weren’t happy. They said it was a waste of money – well, Dad did. Mum didn’t say much when Dad was around. And Angie liked it. She was a good little sister. She wanted Doreen to teach her to drive. They went up on the old airfield sometimes and Doreen let her have a go. Angie was wild – she wanted to go as fast possible, screeching the tyres, making sharp turns, skidding in the puddles slick with oil. In the passenger seat Doreen was terrified and slammed her foot onto an invisible brake, but Angie laughed out loud with the pleasure of it all. Then she would reverse fast with her arm over the back seat to get them back to where they’d started.
Oh Angie, she was so young. She didn’t know anything. Doreen felt responsible for her. Wanted to protect her so she didn’t have to go through the same stupid things she’d gone through. And she would protect her. In fact, she’d do it today. She’d take an early dinner hour and go to that boutique and have it out with this Gene fellow. She’d sort him out. It would be the last Christmas kiss he’d give Angie. She parked the car and headed into work.
*
Doreen strode along New Street to get to the shop before it closed. Not only was the man with the Italian name bringing London clothes to Chelmsford, he was bringing his London ways to Chelmsford, in particular to her little sister, Angie. So now he had to know there were consequences to his actions.
She was feeling good – she’d sold two quite expensive wedding dresses this morning, and a very interested bride-to-be had promised to return. She was feeling smart; today she was wearing her white coat with the belt tightly done up. And she was determined. She waved hello to Harry in the barber’s, gave the belt on her coat an extra tug and went into the boutique.
Two or three boys were looking at shirts. A bloke came out from the back of the shop with several pairs of beige trousers over his arm. This had to be the famous Gene Battini.
Yeah, well, he didn’t look too bad. In fact, she realised, he looked very nice. He was big and tall and tanned. When he saw her he raised
his eyebrows and smiled. She’d taken care with her make-up today. She was wearing dark Pink Passion on her lips and just a slight upward flick of black eye-liner over her eyes.
He might look attractive but that was no excuse. She took a deep breath. ‘Could I have a word, please? In private.’ She indicated a door which she assumed was some sort of stock room.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, surprised, half smiling. He led her into the room. She looked at his shoulders as she followed him. They were broad and strong, a film star’s shoulders. What was he doing in Chelmsford?
She noticed a kettle and a bottle of milk and a camp bed. She knew his game.
He leaned easily against a small sink. He crossed his ankles, he folded his arms. But he frowned slightly. He looked at her. ‘Is there a problem? I haven’t sold your boyfriend a tie that doesn’t go with your coat, have I?’
‘Shut up,’ she said.
He half laughed. ‘I haven’t sold him a shirt that shrank in the wash?’
‘You haven’t sold anyone anything.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. Although, of course, it’s not quite true. We’re not doing too badly.’
‘And just before Christmas you did very well indeed.’
‘Well that’s hardly surprising is it?’ he said. ‘I’d have been a rubbish salesman if I didn’t make money at Christmas. In fact, the shop’s doing very nicely. People in Chelmsford have been fantastic.’ He smiled again. Nice teeth. Lovely eyes.
The Girls from Greenway Page 2
