The Girls from Greenway

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  He reached out and touched the collar. ‘This is really good tailoring,’ he said. ‘Shame you don’t make men’s clothes. I’d sell them in the shop.’

  She laughed. She was having the best time of her life.

  Dishes were appearing like magic. ‘You dip the meat into the sauce,’ he said.

  She did so. ‘It’s like toffee apples,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘Funny ha ha, or funny peculiar?’ she said.

  ‘Funny sweet. I like you.’

  ‘That’s helpful,’ Angie said, ‘otherwise this would be a bit strange.’

  ‘And I hope you like me.’

  ‘I don’t think you need ask me that,’ she said. ‘It’s written all over my face, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re a bit of a dark horse.’

  ‘Am I?’ She was pleased. ‘So are you,’ she said.

  ‘Me? No. I’m an open book.’

  ‘All right. How old are you, actually?’

  ‘Actually, I’m twenty-six.’

  She didn’t know if she believed him.

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Not old enough to get married.’ You had to be twenty-one to get married, unless your parents gave their permission.

  ‘What would your mum say? If we wanted to get married.’

  Angie’s eyes widened. ‘What . . . ?’ She coughed. ‘She’d say what she always says – ask your dad. And he’d say no. It doesn’t matter what it is.’

  ‘I can wait a couple of years,’ he said. ‘I’m a very patient man. Shall we get some more wine?’

  The bottle was empty. They had drunk it all!

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m probably drunk already.’

  ‘Want some banana fritters?’

  ‘I don’t really like bananas.’

  ‘Try some.’

  The bananas would take ten minutes, the waiter told them.

  A fresh bottle of wine came sooner. Gene poured wine into her glass.

  ‘Did you really change your name?’ Angie said.

  ‘Yes, but that was ages ago.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to her. She shook her head. He lit a cigarette and inhaled. ‘A mate of mine started it, because I wore good clothes. He said I looked Italian.’

  ‘Honestly?’ she said, although she didn’t really know what an Italian might look like. ‘Does anyone call you Gerald?’

  ‘Gerry,’ he said. He pulled the ash-tray towards him. ‘Some people call me Gerry. My family, my dear old mum, my nan. A couple of aunties.’

  She liked the idea that he had family, a grandmother, aunties. It made him seem safer. It answered Doreen’s concerns.

  ‘What does Cynthia call you?’

  ‘That depends what mood she’s in.’ He tapped his cigarette on the side of the ash-tray. ‘Usually Gerald or Fuckface, excuse the language.’

  ‘Does she really? That would be horrible. I’d hate it if anyone called me Gerald.’

  ‘Ha ha, yes,’ he said. ‘It isn’t very nice. That’s why we’re getting a divorce. The only problem . . .’ He stubbed out his cigarette, crushing it into the glass of the ash-tray.

  ‘Here we go,’ Angie said. ‘The only problem is you love her really.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to say that at all.’ He took another cigarette from the packet and lit it. ‘No, the problem is she’s a partner in the Boutique. Well, boutiques. We’ve got another one in Enfield. It’s probably going to be more difficult to end that situation than to end the marriage. That’s what my brief says, anyway.’

  So he had a lawyer. He had talked about divorce. Perhaps he was free.

  ‘Why did you marry her, if you don’t love her?’

  ‘I did love her once.’ He tapped his cigarette against the ash tray. ‘I’m not a monster. Love changes. It can go either way. It can get better or it can get worse. And here we are.’

  The waiter arrived with the banana fritters.

  She picked up her spoon and cut through the batter. She lifted the fritter to her mouth.

  ‘Don’t eat them yet!’ he shouted.

  The banana seared her lips.

  ‘They’ll be too hot . . .’

  She laid her spoon down. ‘Before we go any further,’ Angie said seriously, ‘knowing my mum and dad, and there is always Roger, perhaps we shouldn’t tell anyone about our . . .’ She waved her hand between them.

  ‘Relationship?’

  He thought they were having a relationship! ‘Well, yes. Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about our . . . relationship.’ In fact it was Doreen she was most worried about, what Doreen thought about his age and his marriage, and who he might really be. ‘I’ll obviously tell Carol, because she’s my best friend and I tell her everything. But otherwise . . .’

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ he said.

  She felt confident now. ‘When did you decide that your marriage had gone the wrong way?’

  ‘On the honeymoon.’ He laughed.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘No.’ He blew a plume of smoke in the air. ‘We got on well for a couple of years. We both liked clothes. We were very modern. We were modernists. Did I tell you I used to have a scooter? Then I was a naughty boy and she didn’t like that.’

  ‘What do you mean, “naughty boy”?’

  ‘There was a girl in the shop. It was stupid.’

  ‘You were stupid, you mean.’

  He looked at her. ‘Yes, I was. Anyway, Cynthia gave me an ultimatum and I pulled my socks up.’

  ‘The socks you sell in the shop?’

  He laughed. ‘Exactly, I pulled up the socks and the sweaters and the shirts, and we made it work for quite a while. Then it was her turn.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She had a thing with one of the reps.’ He shook his head. ‘They had a dirty weekend in Margate. Why am I telling you all this?’

  ‘Because I asked you and because you said we were having a relationship.’

  ‘Oh my god, did I?’

  ‘Shut up! Yes, you did.’

  ‘You’re right, I did. I would like a relationship with you. Very much. I like your style. Let’s drink to that!’ They raised their glasses. ‘I think the banana should have cooled down now.’

  She tasted it. ‘It’s nice,’ she said. She ate it quickly and ran her finger round the plate and licked off the sauce.

  He called the waiter and took out his roll of notes. She couldn’t stop looking as he peeled off two ten pound notes. She thought what she could have bought with that. She shook herself. She didn’t have to think like that anymore.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. He shepherded her out of the restaurant. ‘We’ll get a cab.’ The word ‘cab’ made her shiver with pleasure. Everyone else in Chelmsford said ‘taxi’.

  They walked through the town, arm-in-arm. She saw one or two people from the Orpheus, Don and Mick Flynn, no one who really knew Roger. Not that she cared, at this point. It couldn’t last with Roger. He was a boy. Tonight she was with a man, a real man, a solid man who had strong hands and who, she knew had lived a life, though she also knew she had drunk a lot of wine.

  He came in the taxi with her, but she asked the driver to stop at the end of the Crescent. Gene put his arm round her and pulled her to him. He kissed her softly. ‘Mmm, you taste nice,’ he said.

  ‘That will be the bananas,’ she whispered. She touched his sweater. ‘You feel nice,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll do this again, won’t we?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, sensing the wine again. ‘Yes, we will.’

  ‘OK. Next week we’ll do something special, like I said. Come into the shop and we’ll sort it out. You’re really something, you know?’

  ‘Am I?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. And you’d better go now, or I’ll do something that I’ll regret. And so will the driver.’

  ‘He’d probably enjoy it,’ she said.

  ‘
Cheeky.’

  She got out of the car and waited while the taxi did a cumbersome turn and disappeared into Sperry Drive. She was still smiling from the conversation and the meal and the wine.

  She crept into the kitchen. Doreen was at the table painting her fingernails. She looked up. ‘Well, I was going to ask if you’d had a nice evening, but given you look like the cat that got the cream, I already know. So, where’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh, oh, nowhere.’

  ‘With Roger?’

  ‘No. A . . . a group of us. We went to the Chinese restaurant in Baddow Road.’

  ‘Good food?’

  ‘I had banana fritters.’

  ‘I’ve never had those.’

  ‘They were delicious. But I think I’m a bit drunk.’

  ‘Well, don’t let Dad see you. As long as you had a good time.’

  ‘I did! What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. I watched some boring telly and Mum and I had a cup of tea. The highlight was when I threw out that chair in my bedroom, and Mum and I threw out the armchairs and that tatty old rug in the front room. We don’t need them now, we’re going to get some new ones. We were looking in the catalogue. And now I’m painting my nails. A fantastic evening.’ She held out her hands. ‘What do you think of this shade? Should I do my toenails too?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angie said. ‘It looks very nice.’

  ‘Oh, why is my life so boring?’ Doreen said. ‘All this money isn’t doing me any good.’

  ‘You’re getting your car.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. And it’s going to be fab. I’m picking it up next week, they say.’

  ‘Can I drive it?’

  ‘Angie! You can buy your own now.’

  CHAPTER 14

  DOREEN WAS EXCITED. THE SHOWROOM HAD rung and said the car would be ready for collection at ten on Tuesday. Finally the day was here. She had taken time off work, specially.

  She had sold the Hillman for thirty pounds to a girl who worked in the make-up department. The girl and her dad had picked up the car the week before. She had finalised all the insurance issues in her dinner hour, using the thirty pounds to pay the extra premium for the new car.

  She was ready.

  She dressed carefully. She selected her black Sloppy Joe and her pink capri pants, and neat lace-up shoes. She wanted to look like an elegant and sophisticated woman when she opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat.

  When she came down to the kitchen, her mum and dad were there, getting ready to go to London. Today was the day of the interview for the ten pound passage to Australia, to find out if they were eligible. Doreen had said she and Angie would go on another day. She was buying time for Angie, and maybe for herself she realised.

  Her mum stood in front of the mirror on the door of the broom cupboard, fretting with her hair. The perm hadn’t achieved the effect she had hoped for.

  ‘Mum, it was never going to make you look twenty-six again,’ Doreen said. ‘You look great. Just the sort of person Australia wants.’

  ‘I think my haircut makes me look twenty-five,’ her dad said. ‘But then, I’ve stuck to the people I know, not tried fancy new establishments.’ He pulled his knitted waistcoat straight and put on the jacket of his new suit. It was tweed. He looked almost like a country gentleman.

  Doreen checked her watch. She was cutting it fine if she wanted to catch the forty-five bus. She pulled on her coat and, wishing them both the best of luck, left the house. She walked briskly around the Crescent and turned into Warwick Avenue. As she was reaching the top of the rise she could see the bus trundling down Greenway Road. She began to run up the incline. This was hopeless. And she was getting a stitch. She waved her hand as she limped across the road. The bus stopped. It wouldn’t wait, she was sure, she was going to miss it. She would be late. But for goodness’ sake, she told herself, they’re not going to sell the car to anyone else. She slowed down, bending over, feeling her side.

  But the bus was still waiting at the stop, the engine knocking its calm, regular rhythm. She couldn’t think why it didn’t go.

  Then she saw Cliff Evans hanging half on, half off the bus, his black leather coat flapping in the wind. Cliff Evans. What was he up to? She really didn’t want to get mixed up with him. But he was keeping the bus from moving. As she got closer she could hear the conductor shouting, ‘Get inside! No standing on the platform!’

  As she climbed on to the bus Cliff grinned at her. ‘I thought you were trying to miss it, for a moment.’

  ‘If I’d known it was you holding it here, I would have.’ They grinned at each other. She liked this kind of chat. She hardly even knew him, but straight away they were teasing each other. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact they lived five doors apart. They knew each other.

  ‘Too late now. You’re on.’

  The conductor shouted again, ‘No standing on the platform!’

  ‘Coming up top?’

  ‘Yes. Not with you!’ she added, looking at his expression.

  He loped up the stairs. She followed him and as she reached the top, he pulled her sleeve and she toppled onto the seat beside him at the back of the bus. ‘I saved you a place,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He put one foot up on the seat in front. His shoes were long and pointed. ‘Where are you going, looking so snazzy?’ he said.

  It was the coat, the whiteness of it always made an impact. ‘Somewhere where snazziness is the order of the day.’ She glanced at his dark outfit, the leather coat, the dark suit, the grey button-down shirt. ‘Where are you off to, in that smart tie?’

  He looked down at the thin strip of black leather. ‘I’ve got some business to do.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Work. A place where wearing a tie is always the order of the day.’

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘You should drop by sometime. We could be snazzy together. Come with me now, I’ve got to arrange some flowers. You could get lucky.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’ve got places to go. And no thanks, I don’t smoke Embassy. One to the Railway Station, please,’ she said to the conductor and smiled.

  Cliff struck a match and lit a cigarette. ‘Let me guess, you’re taking the train to hit the flesh pots of Braintree. Yeah, the cathedral please.’ He took his ticket. ‘I know, hot rod driving in Hatfield Peverel.’

  ‘In this outfit?’ She opened her coat slightly. ‘Well, clever clogs, you’re almost right. If you must know, I’m about to buy a new car.’

  ‘Good for you. Well, you’re wearing the right clothes.’ He paused. ‘That’s a nice sweater.’

  ‘Oh this,’ she said carelessly.

  ‘I like a girl in mohair.’

  ‘Well, I hope she likes you. It’s my stop. Gotta go.’ She stood up, tying her belt round her waist.

  ‘Well . . .’ He yawned, trying to look cool, she thought. ‘Have a nice time looking snazzy in your new car.’

  She smiled. ‘I will.’ The bus was slowing down. She slid her handbag over her arm.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll give me a ride sometime.’

  She looked at him, up the stairwell. ‘Perhaps I will.’

  She watched the bus sail down Duke Street. He was a funny bloke. But he was a lot more attractive than he had been at school. He had a sort of twinkle in his eye, and a cool way of looking at you, that was really nice. You go for ages without any love-life at all, she thought, and then two blokes turn up at the same time. If it hadn’t been for Gene she might have had serious thoughts about Cliff. But Gene came first. She was satisfied with him. He was so different, so intriguing.

  The car was parked outside the showroom and it made her heart sing – a pale blue Triumph Spitfire, a convertible, a soft top. The bonnet gleamed in the watery sunshine. The salesman came out of his office to greet her. There were two more forms that needed her signature, she wrote a large cheque and then the car was hers.

  She slid into the low seat and for a moment sat in the parked car and enjoyed the smell
of the new leather seats, the feel of the steering wheel, and the quiet beneath the soft roof. She put the key into the ignition and turned on the engine. The car purred into life and she put it in gear and drove away. Half way along Victoria Road she stopped and put down the roof. She wrapped a scarf round her head and then set off again. She made for the A12 and drove up to Hatfield Peverel. The car was neat and speedy and the steering was a dream.

  She drove back the same way, through Springfield, past the prison, and turned right into town. She could show the car to Harry. She pulled up outside the barber’s. She jumped out of the car and peered through the shop window. It looked busy. Harry was cutting someone’s hair. Three people were sitting waiting in chairs. Rose, Harry’s assistant, was handing out cups of something. Doreen waved and walked along the street.

  ‘Hello!’ Gene said as Doreen stepped into the boutique. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘Oh really? Well, I was thinking about you.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘And your comments on the kind of car I should drive.’

  He frowned. She could tell he didn’t remember. ‘God, you’re hopeless,’ she said. ‘You said you thought I should drive a sports car.’

  ‘Did I? Well I think you should.’

  ‘Well now I do. It’s parked just down the road.’ He moved over to the door and she pointed out the car.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to take me for a spin. In the meantime, the kettle’s on. Want a cuppa?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she sighed, but she was pleased. ‘Have you got any biscuits?’

  ‘Biscuits, blimey! All I said was “Do you want a cup of tea?”’

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We both know a cup of tea is pointless without biscuits.’