‘So, if you started in the morning, and say I did some of the sewing, the straight bits, the seams, how many could you make in a day?’
‘I don’t know. I’d need material. Well I still have all the material I bought. You can’t return it once it’s been cut off the roll.’
‘OK, so we’ve got the material.’
‘I’ve got to run,’ Mum said. ‘Keep going. You might be the saviour of us yet, Angie.’ She walked into the hall to fetch her coat.
‘OK,’ Doreen said. ‘We’ve got the material. And let’s just say we’ve got the zips and the cotton and everything. How many could you make in a day?’
‘I don’t know. Four or five.’
‘Well, there you are! We’ve got a fashion range. Now you just need a name.’
‘Hang on, what are we talking about?’
Doreen laughed. ‘We’re talking about you – Angela Smith fashion designer, and her range of designs. That must be the way out of this. It won’t happen overnight, but if we all get stuck in and help out with the sewing, this could be the start of something big.’
‘I think Doreen’s right,’ Mrs Smith said, buttoning her coat. ‘I think it sounds like a wonderful idea.’ She walked to the back door. ‘I wish I wasn’t going out now. But I think this could be it.’ She grinned widely at her daughters. ‘I’m a lucky woman,’ she said. She picked up her handbag.
‘OK, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I could make a few dresses, where would I sell them?’
‘Anywhere,’ Doreen said. ‘Put an advert in the paper.’
‘And say what? I’m selling dresses in the garden of 34 The Crescent?’
‘Well, of course you do know someone who’s got a clothes shop,’ Doreen said.
‘Who, Dorothy Perkins?’
‘Idiot! You know someone who sells clothes.’
‘What? Gene? You’re joking.’ Angie looked at Doreen with a frown. ‘Anyway it’s a men’s boutique.’
‘Isn’t there a little corner that could be girls’ clothes?’ Doreen asked. ‘That part where he’s got the record player. He could put a rail in there, no trouble. Your dresses would look a treat.’
‘How come you know so much about it?’
‘I’ve looked inside. It’s my job!’ Doreen said quickly. ‘That’s what I do. Seeing what modern shops are doing, how they’re selling. It must be a good idea.’
‘I don’t know if I could bear it.’
‘Really? Don’t tell me you miss him.’
‘No, not really, but, working with him . . . ?’
‘Angie, he owes you this. And you and Carol are forever complaining there’s not a boutique for girls in the town.’
‘Are we?’
‘It would be great. And I really could do some sewing – I did it at school. And if you want to do a bit of contrast, put different colours on, I could do that. Or beads, if you want to jazz things up. Mum could even do stuff. At night, when she gets in.’
‘You’re going to Australia.’
‘Not straight away. We can even put if off for a while, just while we get started.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Us. You, me and Mum.’
‘And you’re saying I could keep my sewing machine?’
‘And your new table! How else are you going to maintain your production line?’ Doreen said. ‘And since Gene will be getting some of the benefit, he can’t complain if it takes a bit of time to pay back the money you owe him. Can you speak to him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll try.’
‘Will you be OK working with him?’
‘Will you?’
‘A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,’ Doreen said.
‘That’s true.’
‘Well, there’s a lot in it for him. He’ll see you’re serious about paying him back, and there’ll be a whole load of new customers. And shopkeepers always want new customers. He’d be mad not to agree. But of course, there’s not just his shop. What about markets? Markets sell clothes, don’t they?’
‘Chelmsford market?’
‘Maybe,’ said Doreen. ‘I was really thinking of all those markets in London. Portabella something. And Petticoat Lane. And there must be others.’
‘Portobello Road, you mean. Yes, they’re all selling fashion clothes these days.’
‘This is exciting!’ Doreen said.
‘For you, maybe,’ Angie said. ‘I’ll be on my own soon.’
‘Oh, come on Angie,’ Doreen said. ‘Chin up! Look, if we both have an early dinner hour tomorrow, we can meet in Bonds about half past eleven and buy the bits and pieces you still need – oh, you’ll probably get a discount because you work there – and by Friday you’ll have half a dress shop. Imagine. How much will you charge?’
‘Depends on the material, doesn’t it? But hang on, we’ve got to talk to Gene first. There’s no point in buying loads of stuff, running up even more debts, if I haven’t got anywhere to sell these dresses.’
‘We’ll talk to him first.’ Doreen looked up at the clock. ‘Come on. He sometimes does stock-taking on a Tuesday evening.’
‘Does he?’ Angie frowned.
‘Sometimes. Let’s go and see!’
*
The boutique was open and empty except for Gene. ‘Hello Angie! How lovely to—’ Gene said, looking up as the bell on the door announced their arrival. ‘And Doreen! Well, hello.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘A nice one, I hope,’ Doreen said.
Gene was putting a record onto the record player. The unexpected sound of Dusty Springfield filled the room.
‘It’s great to see you, girls,’ Gene said, smoothly. ‘Have you come to buy something for that Roger of yours, Angie?’
‘I told you,’ Angie said, ‘“that Roger” is history.’
‘Oh yes.’ Gene smacked his forehead. ‘How could I forget!’
Dusty Springfield sang, ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me.’
Doreen looked at Angie and mouthed, ‘OK?’
Angie nodded. She looked around the shop. ‘Gene?’
‘Yes?’ he said, copying her inflection.
‘Do you need to have your record-player just there? Couldn’t you hear the music just as well if you put it in the back room? There’s enough space. You don’t really need that bed in there, do you?’
‘Don’t I?’ he said. His eyes flicked quickly to Doreen. She looked at the ground. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I need to make some money to pay you back, obviously.’
‘There’s no rush, I’ve told you. Take your time.’
‘Yeah, well, things are a bit different now, aren’t they? I want to pay it back as soon as possible.’
‘And so?’
‘I want to make some dresses, like this one.’ She indicated the shift she was wearing. ‘And I want to sell them here, hang them up on a rail that will be standing under that spotlight, where the record player is now.’
‘But this is a men’s boutique.’
‘Where does it say that? It just says Battini’s.’
‘I only sell men’s clothes.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Girls won’t come.’
‘Girls don’t come,’ Angie said.
‘But they do come,’ Doreen said. ‘They come with their boyfriends.’
‘And it only takes one or two to start talking about it and all the mod girls from Chelmsford will come,’ Angie said. ‘And from Braintree and Great Waltham and Little Waltham.’
Gene held up his hands. ‘I get the point. But what am I selling? Two exclusive handmade dresses or a range that’s going to keep coming? I mean how many have you got to sell?’
‘Well . . .’ Angie began.
‘How many do you need?’ Doreen said quickly.
‘I dunno. If it’s going to be a range, ten? Fifteen? With a promise of more to follow.’
‘That’s exactly what we’ve got!’ D
oreen said. ‘We thought you’d need sizes ten and twelve.’
‘Oh, did you? Well, I suppose so, if they’re all as skinny as Angie.’
‘And maybe a few fourteens,’ Doreen said.
‘And a sixteen or two,’ Angie said.
‘Hold on! This would be a bit of a gamble, you know. It’s all new to me. Tell you what. Why don’t you bring in a few dresses next week? Tell your mates they’ll be in here. We’ll see how they go. And for the first couple of weeks, I won’t take any commission or charge you any rent. All right, sugar plum?’ He smiled at Angie.
Angie whispered triumphantly to Doreen. ‘Yes!’ Then, turning to Gene she said, ‘Just to be clear, I’m not your sugar plum. This is a business arrangement.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
‘Now excuse us,’ Doreen said. ‘We’ve got to go and get you those dresses.’
As they left the shop a boy in a parka was looking in the window, with a young woman in a suede coat.
‘Come back next week and you’ll be able to buy mod dresses here,’ Doreen said.
‘Really?’ the girl said.
*
As they walked up to the bus station, Doreen said, ‘Well that was easy. I didn’t think he’d agree so fast. You haven’t gone back him, have you?’
‘No!’ Angie said. ‘I think he feels guilty about the way he treated me – and you. And this way he’s not going to lose anything. He loves making money. He loves that roll of tenners he carries round with him.’
‘And we are just about to make it bigger.’
‘Are you really sure you’re OK with working with Gene?’ Angie said.
‘I can do it if you can,’ Doreen said.
‘But how are we going to do this?’ Angie asked. ‘When are we actually going to make these dresses?’
‘Tonight, every night. For some reason, neither of us has a social life. We’ll get up early, do a couple of hours in the morning before we catch the bus.’
‘If you say so,’ Angie said.
CHAPTER 31
WHEN DOREEN WENT INTO JOHNSON’S, THE newsagents, on the parade of shops on Greenway Road, Mrs Evans was in there buying a birthday card.
‘Oh Doreen,’ she said, ‘what do you think of this one?’
Doreen looked over her shoulder as she paid for her cigarettes. ‘Very nice.’
‘Good, that’s the one I’ll have. Wait for me, we can walk over to the Crescent together.’
They walked out of the shop together and crossed the road to the Crescent. Doreen was silent.
‘Everything all right, dear?’ Mrs Evans said.
‘Yes.’
Mrs Evans looked her up and down. ‘Is everything really all right?’
Doreen frowned.
‘You can tell me to shut up, dear,’ she said, ‘but you look like you’ve got a bit of a problem.’
‘What do you . . . ?’ Doreen felt a blush colour her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She began to walk faster.
‘Slow down, lovey. You’re in no fit state to be running anywhere, are you?’ Mrs Evans said.
Doreen slowed her pace.
‘Don’t worry, your mum didn’t tell me.’
‘She doesn’t know,’ Doreen said, then wished she hadn’t. She’d given herself away. This was awful.
‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ Mrs Evans said.
‘How did you know?’
‘The way you walk, maybe. The look in your eye. Your ankles. They’re still lovely, but they’re a bit swollen, aren’t they?’
Doreen looked down at her feet.
‘Now from your reaction,’ Mrs Evans said, ‘I would imagine this is not the sort of situation you’re happy to be in.’
‘I don’t—’
‘So I’ll just say this once, that there are people around who help girls like yourself.’
‘You?’ Doreen asked.
‘No, no, not me, but you know. People know people, don’t they?’ They had reached Mrs Evans’ front gate. ‘Think about it, dear,’ she said. ‘If you need any help, or just someone to talk to, you know where I am. Now I’ve got to get in and get their tea. Look after yourself, lovey. And remember I’m here.’
The kindness of Mrs Evans words were like balm to Doreen. She had been feeling so alone. She was determined not to burden Angie any further, and Gene couldn’t help her. And now somehow there was someone who was sharing the load. Tears ran down her face as she walked to the house.
*
A week later Doreen walked up the road. She was afraid. Very, very afraid. She felt weak. No one at home knew what she had decided to do. At the last minute she had thought of telling Angie, Angie might even have come with her, but she’d thought it best not to tell anyone. This was something she needed to do on her own. Timidly she tapped on the door of the Evans’s house. She hoped to God that Cliff wouldn’t be in.
There was a long wait and then the door opened. Mrs Evans smiled with a warm, enveloping smile. ‘Come in, duck,’ she said. She glanced up at the large clock in the hall. ‘You’re right on time. My friend is expecting us. You’ve got the necessary?’
Miserably, Doreen nodded. The envelope with the notes was at the bottom of her bag. She had managed to persuade the bank manager to extend her overdraft, with a smile and a cheerful tilt of the head.
‘The kids have gone to my sister’s for the day,’ Mrs Evans said, buttoning her coat.
Doreen said nothing.
Mrs Evans looked at her pale, drawn face. ‘Are you sure about this?’ she said gently.
Doreen nodded, afraid to speak for fear she would burst into tears.
Together they walked up to the shops, through the narrow passage at the side, past the field where the polling booths were erected at election time, down and round into the road of white cement houses that was part of a new estate at the back of the Greenway.
They stopped in front of a house with a neat garden and a small silver birch tree. Mrs Evans looked at Doreen. ‘All right?’
Doreen nodded. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said.
They walked up the path and Mrs Evans knocked on the door. As they waited on the doorstep Mrs Evans rubbed her hands together. ‘Chilly day today, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Doreen forced herself to speak. ‘But I don’t mind it, when it’s cold.’
‘Ah, you’re young,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘Cliff’s the same. Never wears enough clothes.’
Hearing Cliff’s name made Doreen start. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of a time when she would have responded to Mrs Evans’s comment with a saucy reply about the number of clothes that Cliff might wear. Cliff. Things might all have been different if she’d gone down that path. But she hadn’t. She was here. She put her hand on her stomach. She was about to allow someone she didn’t know to do unspeakable, intimate things to her. She stroked the warm curve of her stomach.
‘Don’t worry.’ Mrs Evans patted her hand. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll stay with you if you like.’
‘Oh no! Oh no, no. You don’t have to do that,’ Doreen said.
The door opened. Mrs Evans’s friend looked at them and frowned. She was wearing a faded cotton overall, that tied at the waist, and she was wiping her hands on a towel that had stains on it that Doreen didn’t want to think about. ‘I thought we said tomorrow,’ she said.
Doreen turned desperately to Mrs Evans. ‘I’m at work tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Bet,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘I was sure we’d said today.’
‘Well, don’t stand there on the doorstep. You’d better come in.’
Squashed in the narrow hall, Mrs Evans said, ‘This is Doreen, Betty. Doreen, this is Mrs Clokes.’
Doreen and Mrs Clokes nodded at each other.
‘The thing is,’ Mrs Clokes addressed Mrs Evans, ‘I’m busy today.’ She looked over her shoulder, along the hall. There were three doors. They were all closed.
‘Oh, please, pl
ease,’ Doreen said. ‘I can’t come tomorrow.’
Mrs Clokes shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t like to be rushed.’
‘Take your time,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘We’ve got all afternoon. Why don’t I make a cup of tea?’
‘All right, you know where everything is, Nora.’
*
Doreen sat on the sofa, in the dark living room, a weak cup of tea on her lap, her knees tight together. Should have thought of that before, she told herself grimly. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from a standard lamp with an unexpectedly complicated lampshade of pink tassels and red ribbons. I’m in a brothel, Doreen thought. She hiccupped, almost laughed, at the irony, and the cup rattled on the saucer. I’m hysterical, she thought.
Then she heard a scream of pain and a loud wail. Someone in another room was crying. She sat up sharply. ‘What’s that noise?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Mrs Evans murmured. ‘Sometimes it takes girls like that. It’s the shock of it all. Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean anything.’
How could she say that it didn’t mean anything? People didn’t wail like that for nothing. What was she thinking, sitting here in this, this bordello, waiting for someone to probe so deeply into her that she would howl the house down? Carefully Doreen put the cup and saucer down on the grubby rag rug. She felt sick. She looked at Mrs Evans. Mrs Evans looked back at her, with a small, questioning smile.
Doreen put her arms tight across her stomach. She rocked forward slightly.
‘Are you cold?’ Mrs Evans asked. ‘I’ll put on another bar of the fire if you like. She won’t mind.’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ There was too much saliva in her mouth. She was sweating. The shabby, dark room seemed to be closing in on her. What did she think she was doing? ‘I – I don’t think – I can’t – no, no, not this. Not here.’ She stood up.
Mrs Evans stood up with her. ‘Are you sure? She’s never lost one yet, you know. It sounds worse than it is.’
‘I can’t. I just can’t.’ Again she put her hand protectively on her stomach.
Mrs Evans looked down at Doreen’s waist. ‘You don’t have much time, duck. If it’s not today, I think you’ll be too late.’
‘Oh, you know everything, do you?’ Doreen shouted.
Mrs Evans made the face of an adult dealing with a small demanding child. ‘I know a thing or two.’
The Girls from Greenway Page 26
