Bobby's Girl

by Catrin Collier

  She and Kate were hungry but neither of the boys had much appetite. She poured Bobby coffee, he sat next to her and it was obvious that he was spoiling for a fight.

  ‘If Bobby Kennedy doesn’t run for president, that snake Nixon will get in and then you can forget America pulling out of the Vietnam War,’ Bobby predicted. ‘Nixon will send more conscripts there to die, or – if they’re “lucky”– survive and be maimed, mentally and physically, for life.’

  ‘If Bobby Kennedy makes a full recovery and carries on campaigning – and that’s unlikely if the reports of his condition are accurate – he won’t be able to stop the war right away, even if he gets into the White House,’ Sandy argued.

  ‘Of course he will—’

  ‘The hell he won’t,’ Sandy cut in fiercely. ‘We’re in too deep. Too many Americans have been killed there for any president, Republican or Democrat, to stand up and say, “Sorry people, we made a mistake, we’re pulling out. All those dead and crippled boys – well it was for nothing.”’

  ‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’ Bobby’s anger escalated. ‘If Bobby Kennedy gets in, the first thing he’ll do is stop sending conscripts into a war everyone on the ground says we can’t win. You know what that means. It means that you won’t have to go overseas. You can sit out your National Service in a military camp in the good old U S of A, polishing your boots and buttons and saluting officers.’

  ‘That’s what you and all the other draft dodgers want, isn’t it, Bobby?’ Sandy taunted. ‘A guarantee that while you’re sitting on your butts pretending to study in Europe half of our generation aren’t getting killed in ’Nam. Well I have news for you, buddy. Some wars are worth fighting. The Communists have to be stopped just as Hitler had to be stopped …’

  ‘In Vietnam? In God’s name, it’s on a different continent.’ Bobby thumped the table and sent the crockery and cutlery rattling. ‘You think Ho Chi Minh is going to march his forces up Main Street in Hyannis, or invade Washington. Your problem is you’ve swallowed the propaganda—’

  ‘You looked at a world map lately and seen how many countries are red? Russia’s gobbled up all of Eastern Europe. China is following suit with Korea and Vietnam … there’s even one on our doorstep. The Cubans—’

  ‘The Cubans are too busy foraging for enough food to live on to concern themselves with us.’

  ‘And you, of course, have been there lately, rich boy?’ Sandy gibed. ‘It wasn’t enough for you to slum it in Harlem …’

  The argument tennis-balled back and forth, raging ever uglier. She wanted to stop it but she didn’t know how, and from the expression on Kate’s face she knew her friend felt equally impotent.

  Bobby raised his fist, but before he could thump the table again, or Sandy – and Sandy’s face was the direction it was flying in – Penny moved between them.

  Bobby only just managed to stop his fist from connecting with her cheek.

  ‘I don’t know much about politics, but I do know that no argument between students ever changed the world,’ she said firmly. ‘I also know that political arguments don’t put food on the table. We need jobs, remember?’

  Bobby stood back and unclenched his fists. ‘Now I suppose you’re going to ask the two of us to shake hands.’

  ‘That seems like a good idea.’

  Neither Bobby nor Sandy made a move.

  Kate did what she always did in a volatile situation. Turned to the practical. ‘You boys can wash the dishes while Pen and I give the house a quick once-over.’

  ‘It’s clean,’ Bobby protested.

  ‘It’s what I call “unsupervised cleaner keep the dust down” clean, but it’s been a while since someone washed out the inside of the fridge, kitchen cupboards and the wardrobes. I’m not putting my food or clothes inside any of them until they’re Pontypridd clean.’

  ‘What’s “Pontypridd clean”?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘My mother’s idea of clean. Go on, off with you, sort out the dishes.’

  The boys went. Kate had succeeded in diffusing the argument – for the moment. But they could feel it simmering beneath the surface. Penny understood Sandy’s conviction that the Vietnam War was a just one. He had to believe it because he had no option other than to fight. She could also understand the guilt that lay behind Bobby’s anger. His grandmother’s money had bought him an escape that would safeguard his life but not Sandy’s.

  It was a situation that would blight their summer and their lives. At the time, she didn’t realise how much.

  When the house was clean enough to meet even Kate’s exacting standards, they showered and dressed in job-hunting clothes.

  ‘Tarrah!’ Kate twirled in front of Sandy who frowned.

  ‘You girls can’t go out like that,’ Sandy declared as he eyed their miniskirts and skinny-rib sweaters.

  ‘What’s up, they look great.’ Bobby was buttoning a white cotton shirt he’d teamed with black pants. A tie was hanging out of his pocket.

  ‘Their outfits might tempt the Playboy Club into hiring them, but this is a conservative town. How many miniskirted waitresses or chambermaids have you seen around here?’

  ‘I’ve spent most of the last three years in England, remember.’

  ‘I’ve spent the last two Easter, fall and summer breaks working here. Every restaurant manager will want to hire the girls, but none will, because they’re afraid of what their female customers will say when they catch their husbands and teenage sons ogling their legs.’

  ‘Sandy’s right,’ Bobby conceded. ‘Much as I hate to say it, you’d better put on longer skirts.’

  ‘This is my longest,’ Kate protested.

  ‘Mine too.’

  ‘In that case, first stop uniform shop, unless you girls hope to find something in a retail store.’

  ‘Uniform?’ Penny asked blankly.

  ‘Waitresses and chambermaids wear white dresses in the States.’

  ‘Knee-length dresses?’ Kate had exceptionally good legs, long, slim and suntanned, courtesy of a particularly warm May when she’d spent every available minute between lectures sunbathing on Swansea beach.

  ‘Over the knee, would be better,’ Sandy advised. ‘And you’ll need white shoes. And stockings.’

  ‘Stockings in this heat?’ Kate pleaded. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘Unfortunately not. But if you turn up dressed for the part, you’re more likely to find work.’ Sandy, expert job hunter on the Cape, turned to Bobby. ‘Kitchen work suit you?’

  ‘No, but I have to eat.’

  ‘We have enough to cover chefs’ whites if we have to. Let’s go.’

  ‘What do I look like?’

  The changing room in the uniform store was the size of a broom cupboard. She flattened herself against the wall and studied Kate. ‘Like you’re auditioning for a role as an extra in a film about novice nuns.’

  ‘It’s not only long and shapeless; it’s horrible stiff nylon. The seams are scratchy and these flat white lace-ups make my legs and ankles look like tree trunks.’ Kate stared miserably into the full-length mirror.

  ‘How you girls doing?’ The sales assistant bustled in carrying a second uniform dress over her arm. ‘That’s perfect. You’ll soon get a job. The restaurant will probably want you to wear their own hat, but you’d better pick up half a dozen hairnets …’

  ‘Hairnets!’ Kate exclaimed in horror.

  ‘Can’t drop hairs in the customers’ food, or if you’re chambermaiding, in their beds or bathrooms. I picked out an identical uniform for your friend. I thought with your accents you could sell yourself as a team.’

  Kate smiled maliciously at her. ‘It will suit you better than it suits me.’

  ‘You girls will want to buy stockings as well. Restaurants don’t like their staff wearing tights.’

  ‘They look?’ Kate was horrified.

  ‘Every restaurant and fast-food eatery carries out an inspection check of their staff’s clothing for tears, stains and gene
ral untidiness before the start of a shift. Howard Johnson’s chain is the worst. But I’m doing myself no favours. If you get taken on by them, you’ll have to wear the full house uniform supplied by management. Long gingham dress, gingham mob caps and apron.’

  Penny took the white uniform from the assistant. It suddenly seemed the lesser evil.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  They left the uniform store and walked down Main Street. A muted ‘hush’ had descended over the town. The streets were crowded, but when people spoke it was in whispers, as if they were in church. The name ‘Bobby Kennedy’ hung in the air. It was as though everyone was holding their breath waiting for the next news announcement.

  ‘People who live on the Cape consider the Kennedys as part of their family because they’ve summered in the Kennedy compound outside Hyannis for two generations,’ Bobby explained after they passed a group of matrons, damp handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes, who were discussing the tragedy.

  Neither Bobby nor Sandy mentioned their argument. She and Kate did their best to distract them by asking questions about the town. It was certainly different from anything in Britain.

  A few of the restaurants sported names they’d seen in New York and off the freeway on their journey through Connecticut into Massachusetts. There’d been other ‘Frankie Frankfurters’ with signs declaring that all their ‘franks’ were cooked in beer, and the smell that came from Dunkin’ Donuts was seductive, sugary and identical to the one next to their hotel in New York. There was the inevitable McDonald’s, and when she and Kate saw Howard Johnson’s, they edged towards the restaurant to check if the waitresses’ uniforms were as hideous as the assistant in the uniform shop had told them.

  They were worse. But what they weren’t prepared for was the young woman who catapulted out of the door and ran towards them.

  ‘So, you Brits took my advice and found your way to the Cape.’

  ‘Marion?’ Penny barely recognised the bunny girl as the waitress dressed in a long-skirted blue gingham dress that almost touched the floor. Marion’s face was scrubbed, free from make-up, her blonde hair was screwed into a tight bun covered by a hairnet, and her lace-up white shoes, identical to the ones Penny and Kate had just bought, made her feet look enormous.

  ‘Marion!’ A grim-faced man appeared in the doorway.

  ‘That’s the manager. He’s a real slave-driver and furious with me for leaving my station to come out here. But I couldn’t let you pass without a word. Lord, what must you think of me? Every time you see me, I’m in trouble,’ she breathed headily. ‘We must get together. There’s a party here every night. Come and see me and we’ll set a date. I’m here six days a week.’

  ‘Marion!’

  ‘Must go.’

  She ran back inside.

  ‘How come you two know a Southern girl who looks like an extra from Wagon Train?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘She’s wearing a standard Ho Jo uniform,’ Sandy explained for Bobby’s benefit.

  ‘Remind me never to eat there.’

  ‘Given their prices and your present situation, you can’t afford to,’ Sandy observed.

  ‘She’s an escaped bunny,’ Kate informed the boys.

  Bobby whistled. ‘So that’s the lady I have to thank for you turning down the Playboy job.’

  ‘She put us off,’ Kate agreed.

  ‘We should go back to Ho Jo’s, order four coffees, and leave her an enormous tip as a thank you,’ Bobby suggested.

  ‘That would be a good idea if we had your checking account to draw on.’ Sandy reminded him, yet again, that they were unemployed.

  ‘We’ve just passed Dunkin’ Donuts and Frankie’s. Want to go back?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Money and tips are better in the specialist seafood places. Last few holidays I worked for Cosmo.’ Sandy frowned as he looked up the street and into the sun.

  ‘In the Mayflower?’

  ‘The ship?’ she asked.

  ‘Doesn’t exist anymore. Although I believe there are as many splinters left of it as the true cross,’ Bobby replied flippantly.

  ‘I thought maybe someone had built a replica and turned it into a restaurant.’

  ‘Now there’s a business idea,’ Bobby mused.

  ‘If we had capital, which we don’t.’ Sandy stopped to retie the lace on his sneakers.

  ‘So, if you’re not referring to the ship that almost sank under the weight of immigrants from the nobility of England …’ Kate was referring to all the people at the orientation party in New York who’d insisted their ancestors came over on the ship and they’d inherited a claim to a title ‘… what are you talking about?’

  ‘The Mayflower is a restaurant, owned by third- or possibly fourth- generation Greek immigrants. It has frontages on two different streets with a kitchen that covers both back lots in between. An upmarket frontage is in a quiet street behind Main Street. Every table has two dollars thirty cents worth of disposable fake paper linen to give the impression of luxury. The other frontage is here on Main Street, just ahead of us. It’s a bar and fast-food joint. And here’s Cosmo.’

  ‘Hey, Sandy. Saw you coming.’ An enormous plump Greek with a full head of tousled black hair grabbed Sandy, lifted him off his feet and squeezed him in a bear hug. ‘Please tell me you’re looking for work?’

  ‘I will when I get my breath back,’ Sandy said when Cosmo released him. ‘You know me. I’m always looking for work when I’m on the Cape.’

  ‘You can have your old job back with a ten-dollar-a-week pay rise.’

  ‘You must have missed me. Short-order chef?’

  ‘Short-order chef,’ Cosmo reiterated. ‘One twenty a week plus meals on shift, but it’ll be two till ten, afternoon and evening shift. My nephew’s taken the six-till-two morning shift and I’ve moved Leroy on the ten-till-six night shift. It’s the quietest. He’s slowing down and has insomnia, so it suits him on both counts.’

  ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Today. Clean chef’s whites and hat in the storeroom.’ Cosmo smiled at her and Kate. ‘Pretty ladies you have there. They looking for work too?’

  ‘They are.’ Sandy winked at us. ‘Speak, girls.’

  ‘Like performing monkeys,’ Kate mocked.

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Penny John.’

  ‘Kate Burgess.’ Kate introduced herself.

  ‘British?’ Cosmo beamed.

  ‘Welsh, not that Americans can tell the difference.’ Penny returned Cosmo’s smile. The Greek positively radiated welcoming warmth.

  ‘Two-till-ten shift, like Sandy. Fifty dollars a week in training, seventy afterwards, plus meals. The other girls make up to thirty dollars a shift in tips. With those looks and those accents you two should do even better. We supply aprons, you’ll need uniforms.’ He gazed at the length of leg they were displaying beneath their minis. ‘For the sake of the peace of mind of my male customers, but not me, with skirts.’

  Sandy took the parcel from Kate. ‘Already bought.’

  ‘And we’ll only need training in the location of everything in the restaurant, sir,’ Kate interrupted. ‘We’re both silver service trained,’ she lied.

  ‘Just what I need for outside catering jobs. We’re booked solid for the summer. Can you start this afternoon?’

  ‘We can,’ Penny and Kate assured him.

  ‘Anything for me, Cosmo?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘You?’ Cosmo looked at him in surprise. ‘Your grandmother would have me flogged out of town if I gave a Brosna a menial job.’

  ‘She’s frozen my checking account.’

  Cosmo laughed, a huge deep booming that shook his entire body. ‘And what sin did you commit to receive that punishment, Bobby Brosna?’

  ‘Annoying her,’ Bobby replied evasively.

  ‘You should know better than to do that with a lady who controls your purse strings.’

  ‘I should, but didn’t.’

  Cosmo slapped Bobby across the shoulders. �
��I can always do with an extra kitchen hand. How are you at mixing salads and cooking vegetables, fries and rice?’

  ‘I’ve never tried but I’m a quick learner, clean and honest,’ Bobby answered.

  ‘Kitchen hands are the lowest of the low. At the beck and call of all the chefs, even the short-order chef,’ Cosmo warned with an arch look at Sandy.

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘It won’t all be preparation and cooking. You’ll be given the filthy jobs no one else wants. Scrubbing pans, unblocking sinks, taking out the trash, cleaning trash cans, and all for eighty dollars a week plus meals on shift. Uniform provided. But like Sandy you wash your own. And you girls will have to wash your aprons as well as your own uniforms.’

  ‘Sandy will be getting one twenty a week,’ Bobby remonstrated.

  ‘Sandy’s an experienced short-order chef and they are as rare as gold lobsters. Kitchen hands are two a dime.’ Cosmo stepped back into the restaurant and glanced at the clock above the bar. ‘If you’re sure you’re up for it, I’ll see you guys in four hours.’

  ‘We’ll be back sooner for a coffee if we can afford one, to see if we can pick up any tips from the rest of your staff,’ Bobby said.

  Cosmo dropped his smile. ‘You can have a coffee on the house but I warn you now, Bobby Brosna – as Sandy knows, when we’re busy you’ll be worked as you never were before.’

  Cosmo wasn’t exaggerating. Penny and Kate had to learn a bewildering array of locations. The clean-crockery station – the clean-cutlery station – the napkin station – the iced-water-machine and glasses station. Every potential customer to be given a free glass of iced water on arrival, even if they didn’t order anything.

  A novel idea for her and Kate but they’d never lived in a climate as warm and humid as the Cape in June. There was a hot drawer for bread rolls and another for cornbread. Prices were on the menus, the specials on a board, cocktail, spirit and beer prices affixed to the bar.

  The ice cream station had photographs of what the house ice creams should look like when decorated with chocolate curls, nuts, swirls of cream and pieces of fruit. Penny studied the pictures and dreaded being asked to make one.