Christmas on Coronation Street

by Maggie Sullivan

  She didn’t have to wait long. In fact, she hardly had time to blink before she was summoned into Mr Harehill’s office. He was standing behind the small desk, his arms folded, a grim look on his face.

  ‘Shut the door,’ he snapped when she appeared. ‘You know what this is about, I’m sure.’

  Elsie nodded. ‘I suppose I best get me coat.’ She tried to use her normal voice, but only a whisper came out.

  ‘Not before you give me back your tips from tonight.’ He put out his hand.

  Elsie looked at him, astonished. She had hoped at least he would pay her for the work she had already done this week, but it seemed as if he was in no mind to be generous.

  ‘Tips? But what about what you owe me in wages?’ she dared to ask.

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ he snarled. ‘It’s you who owes me, more like.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’ She was so shocked she felt bolder now, ready to shout for what she felt must be her rights.

  ‘What you’ve no doubt been stealing from me all this while. I told you expressly never to go near the till.’ He put his hands on his hips and stared fiercely at her.

  ‘And I never have been.’

  ‘What about the other night?’

  Elsie’s jaw dropped and she found it difficult to find the words. ‘But you asked me specially to put that half-crown in the till. You even watched me do it. I’ve never ever been near that till otherwise, before or since,’ Elsie protested.

  ‘Aye, that’s what you say, but it’s not difficult to cheat on a publican. How do I know what you’ve been up to, eh?’

  Elsie felt dismayed to be so falsely accused, but she couldn’t provide any evidence to support something she hadn’t done. In the meantime, Mr Harehill was ranting on and there was nothing she could say in her defence.

  ‘I can’t measure what’s gone from each barrel and compare it with the takings, now can I?’ he was saying.

  ‘No, of course you can’t, but—’ she began to argue, stung by the injustice.

  ‘But nothing. How can I trust you about anything, when all you’ve done is lie to me?’

  Elsie looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Don’t you give me those Miss Innocent eyes,’ he shouted. ‘Turns out I don’t even know how old you are.’

  At this Elsie stopped, for she had no answer.

  ‘You led me to believe you were old enough to work in a pub, but I now understand that’s not true.’

  Elsie hung her head and stared down at her clasped hands.

  ‘How old are you, eh? Just as a matter of interest. I hardly know what to believe any more.’

  She didn’t reply. What was the use when he obviously knew already from Mr Woolworth’s store detective?

  ‘And who did I trust to back up your story? Stan Bloody Walsh, that’s who. Someone else who let me down in the worst possible way.’ He gave a false laugh. ‘For all I know, the two of you could be in cahoots. So you can’t blame me if I think it only fair that you at least turn over your tips. Tonight’s tips and we’ll call it quits. I think that’s a pretty generous deal. You should consider yourself lucky.’

  Then how come I don’t feel lucky? Elsie had the words on the tip of her tongue but she managed to hold them back. She was about to leave, there was no point in trying to put her case when she really had no case. ‘I’ll get me coat,’ she said and she turned to go.

  Mr Harehill held out his hand to bar her way. ‘Tips,’ he said again.

  She dipped her hand into her pocket and reluctantly handed over the coppers that she had scrimped from this evening’s customers. She was tempted to hold a couple back but then decided it wasn’t worth it. The way things were going, the detective might try to hang her upside down on her way out to make sure she wasn’t stealing anything else precious from the bar. The thought suddenly made her want to laugh as she pictured it and despite her misery it was all she could do to stop herself smiling.

  When she came out of the office it was the detective’s face that was split into a wide grin. He raised his glass to her once more and walked beside her to the door. ‘Sorry you didn’t want to do it my way,’ he whispered. ‘You know we’d both have been far better off.’

  She could feel the spittle gathering in her mouth and it was all she could do not to gob it out into his face.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ was all she said as she pushed past him and left the bar for the final time.

  ‘Of course there’s still the little matter of the price of that lipstick, which I presume you won’t now be producing at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  Elsie stared at him. She’d had more than enough for one day and she certainly owed him nothing. ‘No thanks to you,’ she spat out.

  ‘Sorry to have put a spanner in your works, Miss High and Mighty. Perhaps you should have taken me up on my offer.’

  ‘I’d rather be dead in a ditch than be pawed by you, you dirty old bugger.’ That wiped the smile off his face, Elsie was pleased to note, as she flounced past him with as much dignity as she could muster.

  Chapter 16

  Stan stared across the road and read the sign King’s Cross Station which stood out in bold letters across the roof of the large building opposite. It felt strange, seeing a sign in English. That proved he was still alive. And he was back in London. He could hardly believe his luck. The joy he felt at being back home in England was having a positive impact on his wellbeing and he didn’t feel quite so ill today. There was even a spark of hope that maybe the army doctors had got it all wrong. What did they know? After all, they hardly spoke any English and he’d had to rely on one of his Spanish comrades to translate for him. All the same, he knew deep down he was clutching at straws.

  He had no idea what day it was or what month. The weather gave him no clue as to what time of year it was either. It was cold and damp, like it usually was for most of the year in England, and he felt chilled to the bone. He only knew that it was seven o’clock at night because the clock hanging from the station roof told him so.

  It felt like years since he had last been in London, jostling through the crowds, desperate to join the International Brigade. Though he knew it was probably only a few months since he had sailed from Dover with all the other English lads, full of dreams and hopes. But none of that mattered really. So much had happened since then. He didn’t think he’d ever forget some of the terrible things he’d seen. Pitched battles in the streets, comrades killed as they fought alongside him; the hunger, disease and insanitary conditions. He couldn’t be sure where he’d caught the tuberculosis that was now killing him; they had all been through so much.… Now all he wanted to do was go home – and he knew in his heart he was going home to die.

  In the meantime, he was going to have to work out how to get back to Weatherfield, for his memory wasn’t everything it should be. He wasn’t even sure if this was the right station. But at least he’d be able to buy a ticket, for with his discharge papers had come some money. Not as much as was owed to him. Not as much as he reckoned a proper private’s salary should have been for the months he was out there fighting for the future of Spain. But it should be enough to see him safely home, back with his mother. At the thought of her surprise and delight when he walked through the door, he felt a tightness in his stomach, knowing that his return would be tainted by his illness. It was a far cry from his dream of coming home the all-conquering hero.

  Right now he was exhausted and wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on. So the first thing he needed was a cup of hot sugared tea and something to eat. He’d not tasted anything sweet since he’d left home and as he hadn’t eaten since the measly breakfast he’d had at the camp, his head was now throbbing and he was having difficulty organizing his thoughts. He crossed to the other side of the street, nearly getting knocked down in the process by a taxi cab which seemed to be driving on the wrong side of the road. He reeled on to the pavement, grabbing hold of his trousers which felt as though they were slipping down. He pull
ed his belt in a few notches at the waist. Before he’d left the hospital in Spain they had given him back the civvy clothes he’d arrived in and it was only then he realized how much weight he’d lost. Even his shoes felt too big.

  He went into the station where he was certain there would be a café. He ordered a cup of tea at the counter and slid his hand inside the pocket of his thin coat for his wallet. But his stomach did a somersault and he immediately began to panic when he discovered it wasn’t there. Without waiting to pick up his order, he hurried away, ignoring the shouts of the man behind the counter. He walked out of the station in a daze. His thoughts were spinning and he went down the first street he came to without thinking about where he might be going. He plodded on till he came to the river. He hadn’t been walking quickly but he was badly out of breath and he bent over, trying to draw as much air as possible into his lungs with each gulp.

  When he could breathe again without pain he stood for a few moments looking out over the water and considered the gravity of his situation. Some light-fingered young whippersnapper must have taken advantage of the free-for-all when he got off the train from Dover. They’d picked his pocket clean without him feeling a thing. So, right now he had neither the means of getting a ticket to Weatherfield, nor anywhere or anyone to go to in London. He was hungry and tired. He couldn’t walk around all night, and it was too wet to sleep on a bench in a park. Even the homeless tramps he noticed had built themselves a small fire under the arches along the embankment. When he caught sight of its flickering light, he found himself drifting in their direction.

  ‘Down on your luck, mate?’ the old man who was stoking the fire called to him.

  It was confirmation that, with his oversized clothes that had been rolled up in storage for months and his flopping shoes, Stan looked no better than they did.

  ‘Need a warm? Come and share the fire. No extra charge.’ The man gave a rumbly cough that was probably intended as a laugh. The other men eyed Stan suspiciously, but the first man, whose face was framed by matted hair and a matching beard, encouraged him to come closer. ‘There’s not many as dare to come down here, but as you have, you may as well get warm.’

  Stan cautiously approached the tiny bonfire and held out his hands towards the glowing embers. He would have liked to sit down, but there was nowhere to sit.

  ‘You look like you lost a pound and found a penny,’ the tramp said.

  ‘That about sums it up,’ Stan replied. He was trying hard to concentrate but the tramp was drifting in and out of focus, and he was having difficulty hanging on to his thoughts. He needed to eat something and to lie down somewhere warm. Most of all he craved sleep.

  ‘By the looks of you, what you need right now is the Sally Army,’ the tramp said. ‘There’s a hostel not far from here.’ He jerked his thumb down the road. ‘They’ll give you a bed and some grub too, if you’re lucky.’

  Stan thanked him and wandered off in the direction the man had pointed.

  The man behind the desk asked no questions but gave him a bed number and a blanket. ‘First floor, turn left,’ was all he said. ‘Breakfast at seven, you need to be gone before eight.’

  Stan wondered if he should tell him he hadn’t eaten all day, but in the end he went straight to the bed, though he tossed and turned restlessly for most of the night with his stomach growling.

  He woke up coughing, not feeling at all well. He was sure he had a temperature.

  ‘You’re a bloody screamer, aren’t you just?’ the man in the next bed grumbled. ‘You needn’t bother coming back tonight if all you can do is rattle on all night. You’ll not be welcome.’

  Stan apologized. There wasn’t much he could do about that. He wondered if he’d been delirious as his comrades had complained of in Spain. He pulled his coat round him and went downstairs. It was a new day but he still didn’t know how he was going to get himself home.

  He exchanged his blanket for a bowl of thin broth and sat down at the refectory table, trying not to drink it too fast as he pondered on the seriousness of his situation. Nobody knew where he was. Only Elsie. And they hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. He’d lost count of the nights he’d lain awake thinking about her, wishing he could change things. She was a corker she really was. But unless he could get hold of some money and get back to Weatherfield soon, he feared he might never see her again.

  His thoughts were interrupted a cultured voice saying, ‘Good morning, sir, and how are we today?’ as an older man sat down beside him. He wore a Salvation Army uniform and his deep voice with its well-rounded vowels was unlike anything Stan had heard outside of BBC broadcasts.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ Stan said. With his head still banging from the night before, he wasn’t in the mood for chatter but he didn’t want to be churlish.

  ‘Just back from Spain?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘The eyes are a dead giveaway,’ the man said. ‘You can always tell.’

  Stan blinked his eyes shut, suddenly overcome with a deep wracking cough. It took him a few moments before he was able to breathe normally.

  ‘You don’t seem well. We have a doctor who visits the hostel once a week and gives his time free of charge to needy people like you. He is coming later this week – perhaps you would like to see him?’ the man said.

  ‘I need to get back to my home town more than anything.’ There was a kindness and concern in the man’s eyes that Stan hadn’t seen for some time and he was touched.

  ‘We have a prayer meeting today, won’t you join us? We think of ourselves as God’s Army, you know. We have much to offer young men like you. God is here for you if you would only open your arms to him.’

  ‘I’m not sure God has much to offer me now, thank you,’ Stan said, wishing he could get away from the man’s piercing gaze. He knew he meant well, but he found it unnerving.

  ‘I bet you’ve seen some sights,’ the man said.

  ‘I … I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’

  The man looked at him kindly. ‘It’s entirely up to you. Only, we get many young men like you through our doors and, in my experience, unburdening your thoughts can help open you up to God’s grace.’

  Stan hesitated but kept his mouth shut. It would have been a relief to talk but he couldn’t afford to open some of the floodgates he’d tried so hard to slam shut. He closed his eyes but now he couldn’t keep out the images the man’s seemingly harmless words had conjured up. For he saw clearly all the filth and squalor they had lived in on the battlefields, the dead bodies and wounded comrades, the hundreds of refugees being mown down as they fled. Even in the hospital, foot soldiers like him were being left to die. He had been one of the lucky ones, being thrown out of the hospital.

  Stan felt tears sting his eyes. He had never really thought about the realities of war before he went out, which was why he had been so shocked when confronted with it all face to face. He had learned the hard way what war was all about.

  ‘I … I can see that you’ve got good intentions … but I just need to get back to my home town, that’s all.’

  The man looked as if he were about to say something else but changed his mind. He stood up and put his hand on Stan’s shoulder. ‘Make sure that you get that cough seen to, won’t you,’ was all he said before he walked away.

  Stan sat for some time after the man had gone, struggling to get his thoughts straight. Try as he might, he couldn’t figure out a way to get some money. And all the while, his mind kept wandering, going to places he didn’t want to go. He tried to think only pleasant thoughts: Elsie, her soft fleshy lips, her flaming red hair. Her unpredictable temper. Her sassy ways. And how much he would love to see her again. But he kept veering off to thinking about how he could get hold of some money and was no nearer to finding a solution. He left the hostel and set off in the direction of the station.

  He didn’t consciously think about it until he saw the pub. It was called the Farmer’s Arms and when he h
eard the cash register pinging out a warning like an old school bell it made him think of the pub near home. It was a warm morning, the rain had dried up and the door to the lounge bar had been propped open. When he looked up at the sound of the familiar tinkle, he saw the till was just inside the open door. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the landlord disappear, leaving the cash drawer open. As far as he could see, there was no one else about. A quick glance told him the landlord had been filling the drawer with change, ready for the lunchtime punters.

  Stan was immediately alert. He glanced around and could still see nobody, the pub was not yet open for business. Without thinking about what he was doing or what the consequences might be, he stepped inside the open door and grabbed the fistful of notes he could see sticking out of the drawer. What he couldn’t see was the landlord, bending down behind the counter, so he was shocked when the florid-looking man suddenly popped up with a bellow, ‘Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  For a split second Stan froze. But then he caught the man’s eye and he knew at that moment he had no choice but to run.

  He could hear the old man yelling, ‘Stop, you thieving magpie. Get your sodding mitts off my money!’ and he was afraid someone might step across his path and try to trip him up. But there was no one but the landlord chasing after him and Stan had a head start. He ran as fast as he could, though the coughing had begun again in earnest. Fortunately, the older man was in worse shape, puffing and groaning within the first few yards, his overhanging belly bouncing up and down. Stan took the first side street he came to, stuffing the notes into his pocket as he ran. He twisted and turned down as many narrow cobbled streets as he could, pausing briefly for breath when he thought his lungs were about to burst. To his relief, he realized he was almost at the train station and he stepped into a nearby shop doorway so that he could make sure he wasn’t still being pursued.