It was quiet in the shop and she walked round to the newspapers to read the headlines of the newspapers upside down, News of the World, The People, The Sunday Times, The Sunday Citizen. When the bell over the door tinkled, she expected to see Mr Johnson back, sooner than expected. But it wasn’t Mr Johnson. It was Cliff Evans.
He was wearing a beige windcheater, tight blue jeans and rusty-coloured cowboy boots. His dark hair was brushed back off his face. He looked like a handsome villain, someone who knew about life.
‘I didn’t know you worked in here,’ he said.
‘I don’t. I’m helping out.’
‘Sorting out the newspapers, I see. Do you deliver them as well?’
‘No. Oh, you’re not here to make a complaint, are you?’
‘No. I’m here for ten Embassy. Where’s old man Johnson?’
‘His wife’s not well. He’ll be back in a few minutes.’ She walked round to the cabinet where the cigarettes were kept. ‘Did you say ten?’
She stretched up to the Embassy shelf. She could feel his eyes watching her. She handed him the packet. ‘That’ll be two and three.’ As he put his hand in his back pocket, pulling out money, she said, ‘You know people on the market, don’t you?’
‘Yeah?’
‘If my sister wanted to sell something, who should she talk to?’
‘Chelmsford or Petticoat Lane?’
‘Petticoat Lane,’ she said quickly.
‘I know a bloke up there. I could have a word. What’s she selling?’
‘Dresses. Mod dresses.’
‘Interesting.’ He held out a ten shilling note, across the cabinet with the expensive sweets, the tired boxes of chocolates. She took hold of it, but he didn’t let it go.
She tugged it. He held on to it.
‘Unless you’re thinking of running out of the shop without paying for those cigs, you’re going to have to give it to me,’ she said.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. ‘What does the father think of all this?’ He nodded his head towards her belly.
‘Well, you can ask me something, but I’m not sure you can ask me that.’
The doorbell jangled and Mr Johnson walked into the shop. Cliff let the ten shilling note slip from his fingers. Doreen fell back a pace, then walked to the till as Mr Johnson lifted the counter flap and walked round to the newspapers. Her hands were trembling as she put the note under the clip in the till, the fact he’d asked her that question . . .
‘Morning,’ Mr Johnson said to Cliff. He looked across at Doreen. ‘Everything all right?’
Doreen rang up two shillings and threepence and scooped out three half crowns and a threepenny bit change. As she handed them to Cliff, he squeezed her hand. ‘You going to be here for a bit?’ he murmured.
She frowned.
‘I might have a phone number for that bloke.’
Mr Collins from up the road came in, closely followed by Mrs Weston. Doreen looked across at Mr Johnson. ‘I can wait if you like,’ she said.
*
Mr Johnson was ringing up Mrs Weston’s paper bill and Doreen was wrapping an old copy of the Essex Weekly News round a block of Neapolitan ice cream for Mrs Piper, when Cliff came back. A stillness filled the room. Cliff looked at the customers and then over at Doreen. He raised an eyebrow. He looked cool and out of place in the small shop.
Mrs Piper carefully tucked the ice cream into her string bag. Smiling at Doreen and nodding to Cliff she left the shop, but Mrs Weston lingered. ‘It’s all getting so expensive,’ she said as Mr Johnson gave her her change. She looked at the money in her palm and shook her head.
‘Well, unfortunately, prices will never go down,’ Mr Johnson said.
Doreen looked at Mrs Weston. She was wearing her slippers. She shouldn’t even be out, Doreen thought.
Mrs Weston looked round at Cliff and laughed nervously. ‘Sorry to take so long.’ He shook his head and said, ‘You’re all right.’
Mr Johnson looked at Doreen and nodded towards Cliff meaning she should serve him.
‘It’s OK, I’m just making up my mind,’ said Cliff.
Finally Mrs Weston turned and left, softly in her slippers.
Again the room was still. ‘Time for tea, I think,’ Mr Johnson said. ‘Let me make you a cup for being so helpful, Doreen.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Scarcely glancing at Cliff, he murmured, ‘Keep your eye on the shop, Doreen,’ and went into the back room.
Doreen and Cliff stood silently looking at each other until there was the sound of water rushing into the kettle. Then, still without speaking, Cliff lifted a large white and gold bag over the counter and handed it to her.
‘What? What’s this?’ Doreen whispered furiously. The bag was full, white tissue paper peeped over the top, but it was almost weightless.
‘It’s the phone number of my mate.’
‘In a bag this size?’
‘Oh and something else. Something you need.’
She looked at the white tissue paper. ‘What do I need? Oh God, it’s not baby clothes is it?’ She didn’t dare look beneath the tissue.
‘No,’ he said.
She stared at him. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Look at the bag.’
She read the gold lettering. De Soutta.
‘De Soutta!’ she said. ‘The De Soutta?’
‘It’s only an up-market Dorothy Perkins.’
‘In Chelsea. Yes, that’s likely.’
‘At last, a smile!’ he said. ‘All right, an exclusive Dorothy Perkins that you don’t leave without spending fifty quid.’
‘Fifty pounds! You didn’t.’
‘No, not fifty pounds.’ He laughed.
‘So . . . how much do I owe you?’
‘You don’t owe me anything! It’s a present.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry,’
‘You didn’t nick it, did you?’
‘They wouldn’t have put it in a bag with all that tissue paper nonsense, would they, if it was nicked?’ He paused. ‘Well, you don’t have to say anything.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. She lifted a piece of tissue paper. She was looking at soft, expensive black mohair. Her finger brushed against it, it was soft, warm, almost alive. She shook her head. ‘Oh my god,’ she breathed. ‘How did you . . . ?’ She laughed. ‘I’d forgotten I told you all about my ruined sweater.’
She could hear Mr Johnson opening a biscuit tin and rummaging through the biscuits. She looked up at Cliff who was drumming his fingers on the wooden edge of the counter.
She held up the black Sloppy Joe, letting it drape over her arms. ‘This is gorgeous. It must have cost a fortune. It’s . . . it’s fantastic. How on earth . . . ?’ Quickly wiping her hands on a handkerchief, she looked over her shoulder to the back room and slipped the sweater over her head. It slid down over her shoulders, almost to her knees. ‘How do I look?’
‘Not bad,’ he said.
‘Is that all?’ she said.
‘Very nice.’ He shrugged. ‘I knew it would look nice.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said. She gazed down at the sweater. ‘Really lovely – but why?’
He smiled. He looked almost nervous. ‘I— I wanted to give you something.’
‘You could have given me a box of chocolates. But this!’
‘Something I knew you’d like. Something special. Something . . . something that would make you think of me.’
‘Thank you.’ She couldn’t really believe it. That he’d remembered what she’d said about the sweater, that he’d thought about it. That he’d found the most perfect thing for her.
‘It’s a kind of going away present,’ he said.
She stopped smiling. ‘What do you mean? Who’s going away?’
‘Me. I’ve got a new job. Merchant navy.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Well there’s not much future in death is there?’
‘If you put it like that, I suppose
not.’
‘I got into a bit of trouble. A rowdy mourner and I had a falling out. They asked me to leave.’
‘And so you’re joining the navy. But, but when will you be back?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It depends where we go, doesn’t it? I’ve signed up for the long journeys. South America, that kind of thing.’
‘Will you be going to Australia?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That’s a shame. You could have said hello to our mum.’ Reluctantly she took off the sweater. She folded it tenderly and put it back in the carrier bag. As she bent she was conscious of the curve of her belly. ‘I’ll be sad to see you go,’
‘Will you? You know, if things had gone another way, I might be giving you my itinerary and asking you to write to me.’
‘Well, I don’t mind receiving letters, though I think I’ve got my hands full in terms of writing back.’ She pointed to her stomach.
‘Oh Reen.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Don’t worry about that. But I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. Perhaps you’ve got other fish to fry? Sorting things out with the daddy, for example?’
‘The daddy has his own fish – and chips – to fry,’ she said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’s no part of this.’ She looked at him, suddenly anxious to make him understand. ‘He was never anything. Not really.’
‘Well, Reen, just remember, if things get rough, there’s someone on a ship, on the other side of the world, thinking about you.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Even with a baby?’
‘Why not? I like kids. I like you.’ He lowered his voice, so she could hardly hear him. ‘It could just as easily have been mine,’ he said. ‘If that evening had gone the way I wanted.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a nice thing to say.’ She took a breath. ‘Are you really going?’
‘Yes. Next week.’
‘Well, you never know your luck. I might write you a letter or two.’
‘I’ll look out for them. It’s going to be a long trip to Argentina.’
Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. ‘You’ll really be that far away?’
‘That’s what I’ve signed up for.’
She wanted to say, don’t go, but she knew she couldn’t.
‘For God’s sake, don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Do you like it?’ He nodded his head towards the bag.
‘I love it. Oh, come here,’ she said. She leaned across the newspapers; The People, The News of the World, The Sunday Mirror. She put her hand on his neck and pulled him to her. She kissed him. He kissed her back, but his arms didn’t move. She stood up. ‘Oh Cliff. We’ve always met at the wrong time, haven’t we?’
CHAPTER 34
THAT EVENING GENE RANG THE HOUSE. Angie answered.
‘How many dresses have you got?’ Gene said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I need some more dresses.’
‘Really? How have they gone? We were going to ring you tomorrow.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘let me see. I’ve got . . . one left. But someone’s paid a deposit on that.’
‘What?’
‘They went like hot cakes. Saturday, it was mad. So, if you’ve got another twenty or so, that would be perfect. All the different sizes, like before, and maybe some different colours. I mean as many as you can. There’s a reporter coming in to talk to me tomorrow, a mate of mine who’s going to do some pictures for Friday’s paper. So, first thing in the morning would be great. Regina rules the waves! I might suggest that to Brian as a headline.’
‘OK, right,’ Angie said. ‘I’ve got to put the phone down now and get sewing. We’ll be up all night.’ As she spoke she could hear the sewing machine whirring in the front room. Gene had seemed so pleased with his first batch of dresses they hadn’t stopped sewing since. Doreen was just now finishing a pile of dresses they were planning to take up to Petticoat Lane. She had spoken to Cliff’s friend who had stalls in three markets in London, and he seemed very enthusiastic. They hadn’t finalised a delivery date with him so these dresses could go to the boutique tomorrow, and they’d get a new batch ready for Petticoat Lane.
‘Ten dresses tomorrow would be fine, bring the rest in on Tuesday or Wednesday.’
Angie replaced the receiver. ‘Mum! Reen!’ she called. ‘We’ve got to get moving.’
*
The next day she took ten more dresses into the shop. Gene was standing with a tall man in a brown iridescent mac. He had a pad of paper and a pen, and he was making notes as Gene spoke.
‘Brian, this is Angie! She made all the dresses.’
‘Impressive,’ he said, nodding.
Angie was unzipping the covers. ‘I’ve made some with long sleeves,’ she said, hanging them on the rail.
‘Is that one of your designs?’ Brian said.
‘They’re all my designs.’
‘No, the one you’re wearing.’
‘Yes.’ It was the green dress. She knew Gene liked it. She still wanted to impress him, she knew that. But that was all, no more than that.
‘Well, then why don’t we do a picture of you and Gene, standing by the rail of dresses? The photographer’s on his way.’
‘He’d better be quick, I’ve got to go to work.’
‘If these dresses keep selling at this rate, you’re going to have to give up work,’ Gene said.
‘I think my girlfriend might like one of these,’ Brian said.
‘There you are,’ Gene said. ‘I’ve had the boys looking at them too. They want their birds to look cool and special.’
Brian was still making notes as the photographer walked in. Awkward but smiling, Angie stood next to the rail of clothes with Gene, and the photographer did his job.
*
She’d been back at work for an hour, still thinking about the dresses and how they’d looked when the photographer asked her to hold them out in a proper display. Maddy from bed linen came across saying there was someone to see her. ‘There she is, over there.’
She pointed to Miss Darling, who was looking at eiderdowns. Angie walked over to her.
‘Miss Darling. How nice to see you.’
‘Angela. Still that lovely smile on your face. Are things going well?’
‘You have no idea. I’ve just had my photo taken for the paper.’
‘Excellent! Do you have time for a coffee?’
‘I could have an early lunch, now.’ She turned to Annette her colleague who nodded with a rueful smile. Angie grinned at Miss Darling. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you.’
‘It sounds like it. Let’s go and have a sandwich in Wainwrights.’
*
The egg sandwiches had been eaten, and the tea drunk, and Angie had told Miss Darling everything – her dad’s sudden disappearance and her mum’s imminent departure to Australia, how wonderful her time had been at the college in London and the exciting last ten days, including Doreen’s involvement and the recent re-order of twenty dresses that Gene had asked for.
Miss Darling pushed away her cup. ‘I’m so pleased to hear that things are going so well,’ she said. ‘I went in to look at the dresses and I was very impressed. They were perfectly cut, beautifully finished, and the sleeves could not have been set any better.’
Angie laughed.
‘The man in the boutique was very fulsome in his praise. And very grateful. You say you’re going to keep on producing clothes?’
‘If people want to buy them,’ Angie said.
‘How will you manage?’
‘Well, I work full time in Bonds, so I’m cutting and sewing in the evening and at weekends. My sister is helping me. She’s also doing the book-keeping. She is pregnant though, which is good and bad. She’ll leave her job which means less money, but she’ll have more time to help with Regina clothes.’
‘I do like that name!’ Miss Darling said.
‘Thank you. But she’ll have the baby, so that will probably ta
ke up more of her time. My mum is helping out but she’s off to Australia. At the end of the week, in fact.’
‘A baby! Australia!’ said Miss Darling. ‘Things are certainly happening. And who is backing you in all this?’
‘Well, Gene, I suppose. It’s his boutique.’
‘You mean he’s supporting you by selling the dresses.’
‘Yes.’
‘He hasn’t put any money in.’
‘No.’
‘Well.’ Miss Darling sat back in her chair. ‘I love hearing about your work. Fashion has been my life you know. Now I’ve got a proposition for you, but first I think I should tell you who you’re dealing with. I think you know I started off at Hornsey myself, that’s where I was trained, and then I went to Paris and worked in some of the best fashion houses there. I married a rather rich man. Of course, the war got in the way. He died. I came back, I worked in London, I designed for one or two of the big houses and for once in the fashion industry I was paid rather well. But I was beginning to suffer from arthritis in my hands, and I wanted a quieter life so I came to Essex and began teaching. I didn’t need to, but I loved it, being around you girls with all your energy and ideas, and still being in the thick of fashion, especially now when it’s all happening with you young people. And now I have retired, I find I miss it. I miss the excitement of working with my students, I miss their passion. I think what I need is a new venture. So my proposition is this. I would like to invest some money in you so that you can perhaps cut down your hours in Bonds, and maybe if things go very well, rent a space to use as a workshop. Big enough – and pleasant enough – for more people to work there as the business expands. I could be on hand to give you advice on who to contact, how the fashion industry works. Sort of a consultant if you like. In return, we could agree that once the business is profitable you could pay me back.’
Angie stared at her. ‘Really?’
‘I have enough money and more to live on. I have money piling up in the bank. I have no one to leave it to, and no use for it myself. I have always admired you, Angie. You have spunk and determination. I’d like to help you develop that.’
‘Even though I didn’t stay at the college?’
‘I understand there is a place open for you there, should you ever wish to take it up again. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were soon working there as a tutor rather than a technician.’
The Girls from Greenway Page 28
