by Maureen Lee
A Labour government was currently in power, the prime minister, Harold Wilson, a bluff Yorkshireman who made something of a show about being seen puffing his pipe.
Despite all William’s current problems, his worries, his concern about who exactly he was, he was looking forward to working for Kathleen Curran, who swept into the office at that very moment. She wore a scarlet cloak and a white knitted beret. She didn’t exactly resemble Little Red Riding Hood, but could easily have been taken for a character out of a children’s story or a nursery rhyme. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Did you have a good time in Blackpool, darlin’?’ she asked. ‘These days I miss all the fringe meetings, and I particularly miss the Irish nights. Unfortunately I feel obliged to attend the events that people tell me are more important.’
‘It was great. I loved every minute,’ William assured her.
‘Where are you living nowadays?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t you give up your room for some reason?’
‘I’m staying at a cheap hotel,’ he told her.
‘You won’t manage that for long on the money I pay you,’ she said bluntly. ‘You’d better stay in the flat for now.’
The flat, it appeared, was where her agent, Paddy O’Neill, stayed when he was in London. William swallowed hard.
‘Paddy’s getting on a bit and he doesn’t come to London all that often these days, so he can stay at a cheap hotel in future. It’s across the bridge in Lambeth, just two rooms, kitchen and bathroom, the flat, that is.’
‘Is it very expensive?’ At Red’s funeral, after acknowledging that William would only earn peanuts working for her aunt, Maggie had suggested she ask her husband if there were any vacancies at his bank.
‘I mean, you’ve got a degree in mathematics, haven’t you? Perfect for a bank.’
‘Not really. It’s a different sort of figures altogether,’ William had said at the time. He shuddered at the notion of being a bank clerk. It really wasn’t his cup of tea. He wanted more from figures than putting them in columns and adding them up.
‘The flat’s rent-free, lad,’ Auntie Kath said now. ‘It comes with the job. After all, you’ve got to eat and treat yourself to a drink now’n again. I’ll give you the key before you leave.’
William heaved a sigh of relief. His life would never return to normal, but bit by bit it was feeling less strange.
When he saw the flat, he felt even more pleased with the way things were going. It was the top floor of a Dickensian house in a street of similar three-storey houses. Self-contained, it was exactly as Kath had described: kitchen, bedroom, living room and bathroom. Everything about it was miserable: dark, dusky wallpaper, yellowing ceilings, cracked linoleum on the floor, tattered curtains. The furniture was cheap, modern stuff.
But William couldn’t have been more pleased had he been looking around an apartment in Mayfair. Despite never having had to so much as think about decorating before, he began to look forward to painting the walls nice bright colours and replacing the linoleum and curtains. He’d been given money for his twenty-first so could afford to pay for a few improvements, though not new furniture. Hopefully the current lot would improve with a good polish. Once everything was done, he would look up some of his mates from university and invite them round for a drink. He recalled Kath saying that the flat would do ‘for now’, but as long as he worked for her, surely she wouldn’t dream of chucking him out!
Oh, and he must write to Nell, tonight, as soon as he had unpacked his bag. Write and tell her how much he missed her, but that it had been important for him to get away.
‘What’s she doing now?’ Quinn Finnegan asked his brother. They were in the hallway of the house in Waterloo.
Kev peered through the slightly open door of the living room to where his mother was sitting on the settee. ‘She’s reading me da’s old letters,’ he whispered. ‘The ones he used to send if he was away for more than a few days.’
‘I thought as much.’ Quinn’s brow darkened. ‘If we go in, she’ll stuff them under the cushion and pretend to be reading a book. She doesn’t want us to know how much she misses him.’
‘She’s a stoic,’ Kev opined. ‘That’s what Grandad said when he came round the other day. He said she’s always been a stoic. She doesn’t want to make a nuisance of herself by weeping and wailing all over the place.’
‘I’d prefer it if she did.’
‘Me too. Shall we make her a cup of tea?’
‘I think so. And something to eat. I’ve noticed she’s hardly eating.’ It was a month since their da’s tragic death. Quinn opened the door and sauntered into the room. ‘Fancy a cuppa, Ma?’
Nell pushed the papers she was holding down the side of the settee. ‘I wouldn’t say no, son.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He went into the kitchen. ‘D’you fancy a cuppa, Kev?’ he shouted.
‘Wouldn’t mind.’ Kev came into the room just as casually as his brother. ‘I’ll warm the pot, shall I?’
‘If you don’t mind, kiddo.’
Minutes later, Quinn brought in three mugs on a tray. Kev followed with a plate of bread and jam, the bread almost an inch thick and the jam piled on. They sat one each side of their mother on the settee.
‘That looks nice,’ Nell remarked. She picked up a piece of bread and began to nibble at it. ‘Mmm!’ she said appreciatively. She could tell they were worried about her. Perhaps it was time she told them what she had planned. There was bound to be an argument, and best get it over with. ‘I’m looking for a job,’ she told them. ‘I’d quite like to be a cook – you know how much I enjoy cooking.’
‘We don’t want you going to work,’ Quinn spluttered through a mouthful of bread and jam. ‘I’ll go to the labour exchange tomorrow and get a job meself.’
Kev missed his mouth with the tea and it went down the front of his shirt. ‘And I’ll go with our Quinn, Ma. There’s no need for me to stay at school. I’ll be eighteen at Christmas.’
‘Neither of you will do any such thing,’ Nell said as loudly and as authoritatively as she could. If she spoke in her ‘won’t take no for an answer’ voice, they might be persuaded to agree. ‘Your da would have wanted you to stay at school, Kevin, you know he would.’ She turned to her other son. ‘And Quinn, you have to stay home and write loads of music and songs and rehearse ready for when you both turn professional and follow in your da’s footsteps. That’s the most important thing of all, taking over from your da.’
She hoped the time would come when they’d make more money than Red, who’d just earned enough to make life comfortable. They’d saved very little over the years, and she’d let Eamon, Red’s partner, have half the money in the bank, as he hadn’t saved a penny. Poor Eamon was gutted by the loss of his partner. After the funeral, he’d returned to Ireland and she hadn’t heard from him since.
‘Who would you cook for?’ Kev asked sternly.
Nell shrugged. ‘A restaurant, maybe. Or perhaps a big factory with a canteen – I’d quite like that, it would be just like I did in the army. Or some posh family that wants a cook of their own.’
Quinn shook his head. ‘Not a posh family, Ma. A restaurant’d be okay, or a factory. But it’s only to be for a year. In the meantime, me and Kev’ll practise like mad and do as many gigs as we can at weekends. When Kev leaves school,’ he said boastfully, ‘we’re going to take the music world by storm.’
‘It’ll do her good going to work,’ he said to Kev later. ‘She’s bound to be lonely without me da at home. There’ll be people for her to talk to and everyone’ll like her. People always do.’
‘We’ll make a fortune one day and buy her a bigger house and a new car – a Mini, she likes Minis. We’ll get a yellow one. Yellow is her favourite colour.’
Grace and Louise had discovered that working for up to six hours a night for six nights a week in a public house whose clientele was at least three quarters male meant it was hard to keep the men at bay. Although the bar itself served as a barrier
, at least half their time was spent collecting glasses and wiping tables. There were a handful of customers who seemed to regard the barmaids – there were five altogether – as part of the service, available for them to grope whenever they went near.
By now, both Grace and Louise were skilled at repelling attempts to pinch their bottoms or squeeze their breasts.
‘Don’t you dare do that!’ they would hiss, eyes flashing angrily, whenever a customer got too fresh. If the man persisted, with Phyllis Goddard’s encouragement they would dig a sharp elbow into the most convenient place on his anatomy. By then, most chaps would have given up, might even have apologised, but should they still not be put off, then Trevor, the doorman who was built like a brick wall as wide as it was high, would be called upon to deal with the matter and the customer would be thrown out.
Possibly most men – women too – thought that two young women working in such an environment couldn’t possibly be virgins, but they were wrong.
In the liberated sixties, it had become fashionable to sleep around, but Grace and Louise had resisted. In fact, they hadn’t even felt tempted. They were old-fashioned girls from good families who between them had determined that the first man they would sleep with would have to be special. In fact, he might possibly be the only man, the one they would marry. They couldn’t imagine their mothers sleeping with a man other than their fathers – they would never know just how wrong this assumption was.
It was Christmas. Phyllis, expecting massive business, had offered the bar staff double pay over the holiday.
Maggie was aggrieved that Grace would only be present for Christmas dinner. She was bringing Louise with her – poor Iris wouldn’t even glimpse her daughter on Christmas Day. William was going back to Liverpool to spend the day with the Finnegans.
The Green Man was opening at six. ‘When I was young,’ Maggie grumbled when the girls were ready to leave, ‘barmaids were regarded as no better than they ought to be. No respectable girl worked behind a bar.’
‘Things have changed since then, Mum.’ Grace patted her mother’s head. ‘Anyway, you won’t be here tonight. Aren’t you going to a party in Soho?’
‘Yes, but you and Holly are invited too. And Louise could have come, of course. They’re your dad’s friends. He’d love you to be there.’
‘No I wouldn’t,’ Jack put in. ‘It’ll be as boring as hell. I’m not looking forward to it myself. The old people will talk about old times – in Polish. Grace and Louise will have a much better time in a pub with loads of young men.’
‘I love going to parties in Soho,’ Holly said unctuously.
‘That’s because you are a saint, Holly, and your sister is a little devil.’ Jack bestowed smiles on both his daughters. ‘And I love you both very much. Let me know when you’re ready to leave and I’ll give you a lift home. There won’t be much in the way of public transport on Christmas Day.’
‘Your dad is positively gorgeous,’ Louise said when they were back in Islington and getting changed ready for work. ‘He’s as handsome as a film star. I could quite easily fall madly in love with him.’
‘You’d better not, or my mum will scratch your eyes out.’
‘If I were a lesbian, I could fall in love with her too. She’s terribly pretty for an older woman. How old is she?’
‘Forty-three.’
‘My mum’s older than that; she’s in her fifties, and my dad’s ancient. He’s going on for sixty. What’s the matter?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Why did you pull that awful face?’
‘I got a twinge in my tummy.’ Grace sat gingerly on the end of the bed. ‘It really hurt. I hope I’m not coming down with something. It can’t be my period, I’m not due yet.’
‘Whenever you’re ill it starts in your tummy. It might be flu. Loads of people have got flu. Would you like some medicine?’ Louise opened the drawer that served as a medicine cabinet. ‘We’ve got Beecham’s Powders, cough medicine, aspirin, and some dirty bandage.’
‘A Beecham’s Powder, please.’ Grace had gone quite pale.
‘When you’ve had it, I’ll make some tea. I’ll put sugar in and it’ll help settle your tummy.’
Grace said she felt better after the powder and the tea. Both girls struggled into jeans. Although they adored high heels and lace stockings, the sight only drove some of the male customers to distraction, and the girls were inundated with unwelcome advances. Jeans, training shoes and a loose sweater was not only the most comfortable outfit for a barmaid, but the safest and most sensible too.
They took a taxi to the Green Man – Phyllis had given them the authority – and arrived to find long queues outside the doors. Customers anticipated spending the entire evening there, some getting drunker and drunker until they hardly knew who they were.
Grace and Louise looked at each other and shrugged, then linked arms and marched through the staff door together.
Things were hectic from the minute the doors opened and the customers poured in. Huge crowds formed at the bars. Although the staff worked tirelessly, the crowds never seemed to get smaller. As soon as people were served, more joined the queue, and by the time they had been seen to, the people served first were ready to order again.
Christmas songs blared from loudspeakers overhead, everyone was forced to shout at the top of their voices, the smell of beer was gradually taken over by the smell of perspiration, and numerous sprigs of mistletoe were held over the girls’ heads and desperate attempts made to kiss them.
Grace noticed that a rather nice-looking blond chap with an enviable tan had stationed himself in front of Louise and seemed to have no intention of budging.
‘He’s an American and his name is Gary,’ Louise managed to tell her when they were both waiting by the optics for vodka. ‘Oh lord, Grace, are you sure you’re okay?’
One of the barmen managed to catch her friend before she hit the floor after fainting dead away.
Phyllis called a taxi to take her home. The house in Islington was completely quiet; everyone must be out. Grace removed her jeans and shoes and got into bed. She supposed she could have got in touch with her mother in Soho and asked her to come round, but it hardly seemed fair on Christmas Day. Anyway, Mum would fuss no end and blame the pains on working in a bar, say it was due to the unhealthy atmosphere or something.
Oh, but she would love a hot-water bottle to put on her aching tummy. For the first time she wished she wore pyjamas, as her legs were freezing cold.
‘Oh Mum!’ She sniffed dejectedly and listened to the silence until eventually she fell asleep.
Louise didn’t come home until after three o’clock. It was the sound of the door being unlocked that woke Grace. She looked blearily at the clock and sat up. ‘You can put the light on,’ she said. ‘I’m awake and I’d love a cup of tea.’
But the light didn’t go on. Instead, Louise said dully, ‘Oh Grace, something terrible has happened. That man, the American, he raped me.’
Chapter 16
Somewhat miraculously, Grace felt better. She didn’t exactly leap out of bed, but managed to get out and make her way to the light and switch it on. She led Louise to a chair by the table and sat her down. Next, she filled the kettle and put it on the tiny gas ring. It was important that Louise, and she herself, had tea. Making tea was the first thing her mother did in a crisis.
Leaving the kettle to boil, she went to the table, sat down, and put her arm around her friend’s shoulder. ‘What happened?’ she asked gently.
Louise’s tragic face aside, the rest of her was remarkably tidy. Her clothes weren’t torn and her hair was only slightly mussed, though she was shaking badly. ‘That chap, that Gary,’ she said in a rushed whisper. ‘He invited me back to his hotel. It was dead posh. We sat in the bar and he bought champagne. I think I drank half the bottle . . .’
‘Louise! Oh, if only I’d been there.’ If she had, they would have come home together. ‘Louise, we always swore we would never go out with a chap when our shift was over, not
even if he looked like Warren Beatty.’ She recalled that the American in the Green Man earlier had been exceptionally attractive.
Louise started to cry. ‘He seemed so nice,’ she wept. ‘After the champagne, I felt quite sick and he took me up to his room. I think I lay on the bed. It must have been the drink that made me fall asleep. When I woke up, I had hardly any clothes on and neither had . . . had he, and I just knew I’d been raped. He’d taken advantage of me, Grace. I was hurting and bleeding.’
The kettle boiled. Grace made two mugs of tea and returned to the table. ‘Drink this,’ she said, her voice still gentle, but terribly shocked at her friend’s behaviour. It really wasn’t like Louise to act so irresponsibly. ‘Would you like me to telephone the police?’ she asked. There was a phone with a coin box down in the hall.
‘No! Oh God, no,’ Louise gasped. ‘I’m too ashamed to tell anyone apart from you. I’d sooner die than tell a policeman. Anyroad, I’m still all in one piece. He wasn’t rough or anything.’ She picked up the tea, and Grace had to help hold it to her lips because her hands were so unsteady.
‘Would you like to have a bath? Though the water’s not likely to be hot at this hour.’
‘No thank you. I’ll drink this and get washed in here with a flannel, then go to bed.’ There was a sink in the corner. ‘I’ll take some aspirin, too.’ Her voice and her hands were becoming steadier.
Grace fetched the tablets and shook two out of the bottle and another couple for herself. Her tummy had begun to hurt again. She helped Louise out of her clothes and into a nightdress, noting that none of the clothes had been torn. ‘How did you get home?’ she asked.
‘He asked my address and put me in a taxi. He must have paid because the driver didn’t ask for money when I got out.’
‘Well at least he had the decency to do that.’
Grace helped Louise into bed and tucked the eiderdown around her shoulders. She sat on the edge and stayed until Louise’s breathing became steady and she was asleep. Then she got into her own bed, but it was a long time before she fell asleep herself.
