They seemed to have walked quite a long way through parts of Weatherfield Elsie had never seen before and if she hadn’t come to a crossroads with a sign that pointed to Westerley Cross in one direction and Town Centre in another, she wouldn’t have known where she was. She might even have thought she was in a different town completely. The young man had disappeared by now, but she spotted a pub on the corner and to her relief found it was called the Butcher’s Arms. It was not a pub she knew, but the good news was that she had never heard her father speak of it either, so she wasn’t likely to bump into the old man. She stood for a few moments wondering, having come so far, what she should do now. If anyone had asked her, she couldn’t have explained what had made her come all this way.
As she stood dithering in the chilly night the bar door was suddenly flung open and two raucous men rolled out, laughing drunkenly. The door swung back, lighting up the pavement for a few seconds. As it closed, she saw a notice was pinned lopsidedly to the diamond-shaped stained-glass panel cut into the wood. She tilted her head following the direction of the piece of paper, which seemed to be hanging by a thread and read: Experienced barmaid wanted for late shift. Must be 18 or over. Elsie hesitated but only for the minute it took to pat down her hair, pinch her cheeks and bite some colour back into her chapped lips. Then she pulled open the swing doors and was sucked inside by the warmth of the bar.
It was brightly lit and noisy but her appearance caused a stir from the moment she entered. Most of the younger lads wolf-whistled while some of the older ones were positively leering, reaching over to touch her as she stepped in among them. Her response to this instant reaction was to exaggerate the sashaying movement of her hips, a movement she’d been practising a lot recently. She even winked and raised her eyebrows at those close by, like she’d seen the film stars do in the pictures. She pinned an immediate smile on to her face and she could almost feel the twinkle in her eyes as she glanced flirtatiously round the dimly lit room. There were several men who obviously hadn’t seen her, for they were standing by the bar rail shouting their orders and a few obscenities to the young redheaded man who was running backwards and forwards behind the bar. He seemed to be trying to serve at least six people at once but couldn’t make up his mind who he should serve first.
A quick glance confirmed to Elsie that she was the only woman in the crowded room and she couldn’t deny she was enjoying the attention. If it was anything like the pubs she’d been in with her father, there would be other female patrons tucked away in the ladies’ snug, which would be approached by its own separate entrance, but she wasn’t in a hurry to join them. As she moved closer to the bar, she caught a glimpse of the young man she’d trailed all the way from the Field. She was right: he was worth following. Not only was his face pleasant but he was kind-looking too. And she liked the way he stopped now and then to flip the lock of hair out of his eyes. He was gathering empty glasses, gripping them tightly between stubby fingers. He carried them behind the bar and placed them in a large sink. There a boy was washing them in what seemed from the blueness of his hands to be cold water. A large man with heavy jowls and a ruddy scowling face, doubtless the landlord, was ringing up a variety of prices into the cash register as the redheaded barman called out the amounts of money he had taken. The landlord handed back the change and the barman’s cash was emptied into the till. When Elsie appeared, the redhead stared at her for a moment then he nudged the older man, who peered at her over his glasses and frowned.
‘This bar’s not for the likes of you, even if you were old enough,’ he said, his voice surly. ‘So go on, ’oppit. Unaccompanied women, entrance round the corner.’ He indicated with his thumb.
‘I’m here about the job.’ Elsie jutted her chin out and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping she sounded stronger than she felt. ‘The one on the door.’ She indicated the glass panel where she had seen the advert. ‘Who do I need to see?’
The man took off his glasses and peered down at her. ‘You don’t look half old enough,’ he said.
‘Oh, but I am. It’s me birthday very soon. I’ll be eighteen,’ she put in for good measure, remembering what she had read on the poster. Thankfully, she had always been tall for her age – she would look even taller if only she had the money for a proper pair of shoes. But she was glad at least she had put her hair up that morning with some pins she’d found in the toilets at work. She only wished she had a bit of carmine to dab on her cheeks as she bit her lips again to redden them up. Unfortunately, the landlord was not impressed.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘pull the other one, it’s got bells on.’
‘It’s true.’ The young man from the street stepped forward, his fingers gripping a couple of dirty drinking glasses. He had stopped by Elsie and moved closer to her as he spoke.
‘Oh yes, and how do you know that?’ the landlord asked.
‘’Cos I knows her. We’re mates. Ain’t that so, Else?’
Elsie tried not to show her astonishment, not only that he knew her name when she hadn’t a clue about his, but that he dared to shorten it in such a familiar way. But she wasn’t about to contradict him. ‘Yes, that’s right, mister.’ She looked back at the heavy-set older man and fluttered her eyelids like she had seen Mae West do in the cinema. When the landlord began to smile, she hoped she hadn’t overdone it.
But he did seem to be taking her more seriously now. ‘Have you worked in a bar before?’ he asked.
Elsie thought back to the time a few years ago when her father had taken her with him into the Three Hammers at the top end of Back Gas Street. She was so young the innkeeper had declared her, ‘The youngest child that ever set foot in my pub!’ Since there were no customers about at the time, he had lifted her on to his knee and let her pull a pint. She recalled the way he’d instructed her to tilt the glass so that there was just enough of a head on it rather than a glassful of frothy foam. After giving her a sip, he’d downed it himself in a few long gulps.
‘Yes, I know how to pull a pint,’ Elsie said, crossing her fingers behind her back in the hope that she wouldn’t be caught out in the lie. ‘Any road up,’ she thought she’d better add, ‘I’m a fast learner.’ She winked at him. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Elsie caught his astonished gaze and was aware of his sudden scrutiny. She willed herself not to look away, knowing that if she wanted to get anywhere she was going to have to brazen it out. Just then there was an icy blast as both the double doors were pulled open sharply from the outside and a crowd of men rushed in. They were a mixed bunch. Some were young, some middle-aged, one or two were positively old, but they were all jostling for the honour of being first through the door like it was the most important thing in the world.
‘Now then, gents. Easy does it. Slow down a bit, will you,’ the man at the till called out, his attention diverted from Elsie. ‘We’ve room for you all, so what the hell’s the rush?’
There were several shouts of, ‘We’re thirsty,’ which for some reason made everyone laugh.
Then someone called from within the crowd, ‘Aye, aye, landlord,’ and he raised his arm in an exaggerated mock salute.
‘He thinks he’s in the bloody army already,’ his mate shouted, elbowing his friend in the ribs, to much general laughter.
‘I’m as good as,’ the first man said.
‘That’s right. Going to be shipped off to Spain to fight in the bleeding Civil War,’ one of the old men explained proudly.
‘I suppose they can do with all the help they can get out there,’ another agreed.
‘They must be bloody desperate to want him, is all I can say,’ a young lad muttered.
‘Can anyone sign up?’ Her new ‘friend’ the bar helper was trying to pass through the mob with more dirty glasses between his fingers. The crowd fell silent for a moment when he spoke; Elsie was taken aback by how serious he looked.
‘Of course. It’s a bloody fiasco out there.’ It was the newly enlisted man who replied.
<
br /> ‘They say Madrid’s under siege and things are going to get worse,’ the old man who could have been his father went on.
‘Well, I’ve signed up,’ the soldier said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘and I’m off in the morning. So this will be my last drink on English soil for quite some time. Let’s make the most of it, eh lads?’ He turned to look at them all. ‘Are you ready, fellas?’
The helper put his head down now and scurried back to drop off the glasses to be washed. Elsie stood uncertainly in the centre of the sawdust-covered floor. She was completely surrounded by the excited group of men until one of them moved away to go and stand at the end of the bar. He banged his fist on the countertop that was already swilling in ale and shouted, ‘Landlord, let’s be having some pints over here,’ and a loud cheer erupted from the crowd.
Elsie still didn’t move. She was mesmerized by the scene that had so suddenly changed with the arrival of the newcomers. War, war, war seemed to be all men wanted to talk about these days. Even her father had been moaning about Hitler invading half of Europe. Only this morning he’d told her mother, ‘It won’t be long before we’re dragged into a bleeding dogfight.’
Elsie had tried to shut her ears. She avoided looking at headlines about a possible war although there were often newspapers lying around at the factory. She didn’t want to talk about it, even though some of the older girls could talk of nothing else. What if Britain did get involved in a major war in Europe? What if their sweethearts were called up for active duty? They seemed to be proud and excited, but afraid at the same time. Elsie couldn’t make sense of it. Weren’t we already supposed to have had the war to end all wars? She was thankful her only brother was far too young to be called up into any army; as she had no proper sweetheart yet she refused to think about what war would mean for her. Not that she could avoid it completely. Even their Phyllis at almost thirteen years old was earning a few coppers shouting out the headlines about the latest German invasions from the Weatherfield Gazette stand. Let’s face it, she thought. No one could be sure what was going to happen.
Elsie was far more interested in the Royal fairy tale that continued to fill the newspapers than the chances of Britain getting embroiled in another war. To her the story of the abdicated King and his stylish American wife was worth talking about any day of the week. During the summer months, she had eagerly looked for discarded newspapers with that story in the headlines. She had been captivated the day the front page of the Weatherfield Gazette had been devoted to their magical wedding in France; she had even cut a picture of the happy couple from a copy of the paper she had found several weeks after the event.
Now she took in the room full of chattering men and smiled. None of them were talking about love stories with fairy-tale endings. Men never seemed interested in things like that. They were so engrossed in their talk of war that they seemed to have forgotten all about her.
Unsure what she should do, Elsie hesistated. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene, so perhaps she might as well go home. The landlord was rushed off his feet, helping the redheaded barman to serve the new customers who were now standing two and three deep at the bar, waving their money and shouting their orders. The young man she had followed had disappeared completely, probably taking another batch of glasses to be washed in the sink.
The whole group had moved away from the entrance and Elsie noticed that the advert that had first drawn her in had fallen to the floor and been trampled underfoot. As she reached the door, she bent to pick it up. Suddenly the landlord called out, ‘Hey, you – Else or whatever your name is. Get your coat off and give Stan a hand collecting them glasses or we’ll never get this lot served tonight.’
Elsie turned in surprise. ‘You mean me?’
‘Well, I don’t see anyone else, you daft ha’porth.’
She turned and walked back.
‘I reckon the customers will welcome a fresh face, so long as I don’t hear you squawking if someone takes a fancy to pinching your bum now and then.’
A huge cheer went up among the crowd as he said that and as she made her way over to the bar she had to dodge the hands that were eagerly trying to take him at his word. But she didn’t have to be asked twice.
‘How much?’ she said as she ducked under the counter to join him behind the bar.
‘How much what?’
‘Me wages,’ she said, trying to look him straight in the eye.
‘I can’t afford to pay you no set wages,’ he said, averting his gaze. ‘But you can keep all your tips. Be nice to the customers, keep them well-oiled and don’t keep them waiting, and you can do well here, particularly on payday. I’ll give you a bonus if the takings are good. And if someone buys you a drink, you put the money in the till and save it till home time which is nine thirty most nights and later on Fridays and Saturdays. I don’t want to see you drinking on the job.’
Elsie was disappointed. She had hoped to get some kind of regular wage. She had no idea what tips might amount to at the end of the day, or how she would know whether or not the takings had been good, but she couldn’t afford to turn it down. Beggars can’t be choosers, as her mam was fond of saying, and she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity. ‘OK,’ she said, and was about to add something but he gave her no chance.
‘Right, come and help me deal with this lot,’ he said, tossing her coat like a bundle of rags over a stool behind the bar. ‘And when things quieten down you can give a hand to young Ray there, washing the glasses.’ He went away to serve a customer leaving her wondering what she should do. But very soon she was pulling pints like she had been born to it and passing the money along for Mr Tony Harehill – he pronounced it like Arial – to put in the till, which he made very clear she was not allowed to touch.
‘Me and Phil there,’ he indicated the redhead, ‘are the only ones to handle the cash,’ the landlord explained when she had taken her first order. You don’t go near that thing – get it?’ He nodded towards the cash register.
‘Got it,’ Elsie agreed.
She was nearly on her knees when ‘time’ was finally called, though the satisfying clink of all the pennies, threepenny bits and even sixpences in her pocket more than made up for her aching legs. What she hadn’t decided was where to stash her new earnings so that they would be safely hidden from any prying eyes. Whatever I do, she thought, I must be careful not to let on at home that I have even one extra penny.
She wouldn’t even tell Fay, she decided; it wasn’t fair to burden her young sister with her secrets. At least, not yet. She would give no sign to anyone about her new job. Elsie wondered how she would explain her absence every evening. Thinking on it, she thought she could get away with saying that she was working nights at the factory. The place often operated around the clock at busy times of the year and the factory had been much busier than usual of late. Word had it that it was in case there was a war. Anyway, Elsie knew her lackadaisical parents were unlikely to check. The others would just have to do more of the housework now – as the eldest, she’d more than done her bit.
‘It’s gonna get busier than this before Christmas is over,’ Mr Harehill told her as he prepared to lock up for the night. ‘And I’ll expect you to work a full shift over the holidays.’
She readily agreed. The young man she had followed, who had spoken up for her at just the right moment, the one that the landlord had called Stan, seemed to have disappeared by the time she was ready to go home. She felt strangely disappointed that she hadn’t been able to thank him for the part he’d played in securing her the job, though she was sure she would be seeing a lot more of him now they were both working at the Butcher’s Arms.
Chapter 5
Stan had intended to see Elsie safely home after her first successful night in the pub. Apart from anything, he fancied her and thought he might be in with a chance, as he’d been so helpful and actually found her the job. But instead, when the noisy crowd of young lads and men who had invaded the pub were preparin
g to leave, he grabbed his jacket and slipped out with them. He was keen to latch on to the newly enlisted soldier. The lad said he’d come to say goodbye to his family as he was off to war the next day and Stan, who’d been thinking of joining up himself, desperately wanted to grab the opportunity to find out more.
‘Which way are you walking?’ he asked. When the lad told him, Stan suggested they walk together since he was going that way too. In truth, his home was in the opposite direction, but he had endless questions to ask and the lad seemed only too eager to answer them. They walked for quite some time, but Stan was too busy chatting to pay any attention to where they were going. So engrossed was he in the stories the young soldier had to tell about his recent experiences, they’d reached the lad’s house without Stan realizing how far out of his way he had gone. He didn’t want to admit how long it would take him to walk home, so he waved goodbye and waited for the lad to let himself into the house before turning around and walking home. But he didn’t mind the walk, even though it turned out to be several miles. It enabled him to clear his head, mull things over and consider again the decision he had made almost as soon as he had first met the young soldier.
By the time he was back in Weatherfield, Stan was certain he knew exactly what he was going to do. He too was going to volunteer to fight in the Spanish Civil War. This wasn’t the first time he had heard about it, but it was the first time he had met someone who had actually enlisted. The previous year a mate had persuaded him to go to a summer camp run by the Labour League of Youth. He knew it was something his dad would have approved of if he’d still been alive as he’d been a keen supporter of the Labour Party. So, Stan hadn’t taken much persuading. And he’d been pleased with his decision. All the lads he met there were working class like him and they turned out to be a great bunch. Mostly, it had been a good laugh, but things had turned serious when they got to talking about the latest war in Europe. It seemed that in Spain the democratically elected Republicans were being threatened by Francisco Franco and his gang of fascists. With Adolf Hitler supporting Franco, the Republicans needed as much help as they could get to stop the fascists taking over. The International Brigade was recruiting soldiers from all over the world and although the English government was against young Brits signing up, many of the lads at the camp were determined to go. The stories Stan had heard there were enough to convince him it was the right thing to do. Besides, it sounded exciting, a chance to make his mark on the world. What’s more, he reckoned he could make far more money fighting for a good cause than he could ever earn collecting dead glasses in a crummy bar in Weatherfield.
Christmas on Coronation Street Page 3
