He straightens up with the necks of three bottles of stout in each hand. Right away he’s struck by how pretty she is – brown hair just skimming her shoulders and eyes that seem to hold a provocative, teasing expression. Yes, she’s a good-looking woman and she knows it right enough.
‘Where the hell did you just spring from?’ he demands, lining the bottles up in their rightful place before leaning across the counter opposite her. ‘How did you get in?’
She doesn’t answer him, just stands there on the spot, swaying her hips as if she can hear music somewhere. He wonders if she’s admiring her own reflection in the long mirror behind him. The summer dress she’s wearing is pinched in at her narrow waist. The colour of her eyes is hard to define. Advancing towards him, her full skirt whispers like secrets as it skims the polished sides of the bar. Despite his best intentions, his gaze is drawn to the way her close-fitting top sits snug against her full breasts.
Of course she’s noticed his interest and now it’s her turn to look him up and down; she even walks round to the open hatchway to get a better view of the rest of him like he might be a horse she’s deciding whether to bet on or not.
Finally, her scarlet lips part: ‘Who are you, exactly?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘You could, but I believe I asked you first.’
He can’t help but smirk back. ‘Should have thought you could deduce that I’m the barman here. My name’s Frank.’ He hesitates before adding, ‘Frank Danby.’
‘Well now Frank Danby, I suppose I should introduce myself: I’m Mrs Stevenson.’ She holds up her left hand and waves it across his vision, the ring on it glimmering for attention. ‘I assume my husband must have taken you on while I’ve bin away. Bin visiting my mum down in Brighton. She’s not bin well for the last month – not that it’s any of your business.’
Frank can’t stop his mouth opening. He hasn’t seen much of the landlord over these last few weeks and, though he’d somehow got the impression that Stevenson had a wife, he’d heard no mention of why she was out of the picture. He wouldn’t have expected a man such as Dennis Stevenson could have possibly snared himself a woman like the lovely creature standing in front of him.
Twirling a strand of hair, the unlikely Mrs Stevenson saunters over to the far side of the room, peering at each freshly wiped table in turn before making a point of running her scarlet-tipped finger along the entire length of the lintel shelf above the fireplace, as if he’s responsible for Bessie’s work as well as his own.
She inspects the end of her finger then dusts her hands together in a single clap. ‘Well you’re quite a surprise, Frank Danby,’ she walks towards him again, hands planted back on those swaying hips. ‘You see, I wouldn’t have thought we were in need of any extra staff. My Dennis usually manages well enough with young Jack to help him out on busy nights.’
It’s clear old Dennis has been taking advantage of his wife’s extended absence to go AWOL himself. What can he say? He doesn’t want to lose this job, yet doesn’t want to land the poor bloke in hot water with his missus. Frank’s beginning to see the dull-as-ditchwater publican in a whole new light.
‘A few weeks back there was a notice in the window asking for an experienced barman,’ he says. ‘Dennis – Mr Stevenson – was kind enough to take me on. It’s been really busy; hectic more like, since I’ve been here; especially of an evening. Expect this hot weather has a lot to do with it – people getting thirsty and all that.’
He should stop talking, wait for her response; all too aware that sceptical look hasn’t left her face for a second but instead he can’t help but add: ‘I’m a hard grafter, Mrs Stevenson, and I’m pleased to say that, so far, I’ve had no complaints. Far from it.’
‘Is that a fact?’ She seems amused and then she sighs in a way that could be good or bad. ‘Well now, it would appear Dennis and I need to have a little chat about you, Frank Danby.’
She eyes him up and down one final time before turning away and walking to the end of the passage and through the door marked “private – no entry”.
When he’s finished clearing up, he leaves by the side door. His days here might be numbered but he’s learnt the hard way that there’s no point in him worrying about things before they happen. A glance at his watch tells him it’s 3.40 already.
A hundred yards on, he leaves the shadows and the heat of the afternoon hits him. He takes off the jacket he’s only just put on and rolls up his shirtsleeves. It’s a grand day, right enough – hot sun blazing but with a breeze to take the edge off. On reaching the main road with its traffic fumes, he feels the familiar longing for green space and fresher air. The last thing he wants to do is head off back to his dreary bedsit. Besides, he’s been finding that once he gets back there of an afternoon, there’s only time for a quick nap before he has to leave again to get back in time to open up for the evening shift.
He walks along the pavement looking for a crossing point then dodges through behind a double-decker, getting a long honk from the driver of a black Rover. After that, it’s a five-minute walk to Southwark Park. Once through the gates, he heads down towards the lake.
Halfway there, he spots two stout-bellied policemen strolling along side-by-side casting their curious eyes over the crowds. Frank loiters, pretends to be studying the sparrows pecking at some crumbs until they’ve passed on by.
Nearing the water, he watches the antics of some of the amateur boaters – all the shrieking and splashing going on for very little progress. Some youngsters are stretched out on the grass, sprawled on their backs as still as corpses.
Frank takes off his shoes just to feel something natural underneath his feet. He breathes in the smell of fresh mown grass. On the far side of the lake, a couple of bobbing swimmers are enjoying the water – taking a risk that the coppers or a patrolling parkie won’t catch them at it.
The coast appears to be clear and he’s tempted to wade in along with a group of lads doing just that, but he can’t very well strip off without swimming trunks and he doesn’t own a pair – until now there’s been no need. He’s seen a sign saying you can hire them at the lido if you’ve got the money and are patient enough for that snaking queue. On a day like today the pool will be packed out.
At least there’s no regulation to stop him taking off his shirt and pushing the ends of his trousers up a bit. He spreads his jacket on the ground behind him, rolls his shirt into a pillow and lies back to stare at the sky.
At first, he wonders if he’s imagining the sound of twin engines – the distinctive throb of an old Ox-box. No, there she is – definitely an Oxford – wings glinting in the sun and in no danger of coming under fire. With just a smattering of flat-bottomed cumulus humilis clouds breaking up an otherwise clear sky on a perfect training day.
The chimes of an ice cream van ring out. Before it’s even stopped, children from all over the park begin to run towards it, hands clamped tight with those begged-for coins. Once the queue has gone down a bit, he might just treat himself to a cornet.
With his stomach rumbling more than usual, Frank calls into the chip shop on his way back. A fierce heat hits him and the smell has him drooling. ‘I’ll have a thrupenny portion,’ he says searching his pockets for shrapnel.
‘Give me ninepence and I’ll throw in a nice piece of haddock – can’t say fairer than that.’ Eddie leans into Frank’s ear. ‘Mind you don’t go telling any bugger else or they’ll all be wanting the same.’
He finds a sixpence and two pennies and slaps them down on the counter. ‘Go on, that’ll do mate,’ Eddie says. While appreciating his generosity, Frank’s not certain he likes being the object of other people’s charity. The man’s deft hands splash on plenty of vinegar and a good dusting of salt before handing over the tightly wrapped package.
As he’s leaving, a sharply dressed bloke pushes past him. ‘Glad I’ve caught you, Eddie,’ the fella says, lifting his hat. The chippie looks less than deli
ghted.
Frank lingers on the threshold. Despite the heat, the man turns back to close the door on him and then continues to stare at him through the glass. Frank has no choice but to walk away.
Back in the street, he feels uneasy as he drapes his jacket over his shoulders, freeing both hands to unwrap those layers of damp and oily newspaper. He reminds himself it’s none of his business. He should concentrate on his own problems – after all, come tomorrow, he might not even have a job. Though bar work doesn’t pay much, it’s always cash-in-hand and he’s not bought a pint these last few weeks. With his wife now back, at least Dennis is more likely to show up tonight and along with that his wages. Not that the money will stay his for long: he needs to send a postal order to Annie and, once that’s taken a chunk out of it, Mrs Harris, his landlady, will be impatient for her dues.
The tantalising aroma of fried fish is rising from within the warm bundle in his hands. Salivating in anticipation, Frank unwraps the newspaper and, blowing on a couple of too-hot chips, walks towards the pub in the golden light of the early evening sun.
Being well off the main drag down a side street, the Eight Bells attracts mostly local trade and Frank already knows a good many customers by name. Some even have their own tankards hanging from the beam above the mirror. The regulars expect him to remember what they like to drink though he always checks to be certain they haven’t decided on something else. ‘Pint of bitter is it, Charlie?’ he’ll say, or ‘Just your usual half of stout then, Mrs Norman?’
The usual suspects come in as soon as he’s drawn back the bolts. Wilf and Thin Harry practically fall into the place. Before he’s finished pulling their first pints, Fat Harry saunters in.
The conversation predictably starts with them bemoaning the weather; where yesterday was pronounced miserable for a summer’s day, it seems today’s been too damned hot. Thin Harry works shifts down at the docks. ‘Not a bit of shade to be had anywhere.’ He fans his worryingly red face with his cap. Aside from the absence of overcoats, all three men are dressed like it could be winter.
For the umpteenth time Wilf bemoans the folly of ‘them ruddy big-wigs who decided to get rid of our trams.’
‘It’s not like they were going to listen to the likes of you and me,’ Fat Harry agrees. ‘Always the same, en it, Frank?’ And now the three of them are looking directly at him awaiting a response.
‘Aye, it is,’ Frank says. When it gets busier, the demands on him will mean he won’t get drawn into these conversations.
Being payday, it’s not long before they’re coming in in droves all waving those crisp ten-bob notes in his direction. Without an extra pair of hands to help, Frank goes through to the other counter to serve the chaps in the saloon bar with their whiskies.
When he turns round, Mrs Stevenson is standing there, this time with an apron tied around her slim waste. ‘Evening,’ he says.
She gives a curt nod. Up close she smells of fresh soap and something more exotic, and is beaming at the customers like they’re old friends. Still without a word to him, she takes hold of one of the empty glasses. ‘Pint of black and mild is it, Bert?’
‘That’s right, darlin’, you’ve not forgotten then.’ The old man’s face is alight with pleasure. ‘I must say you’re a sight for sore eyes, Grace Stevenson. What d’you reckon eh, Frank?’
Concentrating on the pint mug in his hand, Frank knows better than to be drawn into answering such a question. He places a brimming glass on the towel mat in front of a young student type. ‘That’ll be tenpence please,’ he says, holding out his hand.
She continues to work alongside him. Within such a confined space, they have to move round each other one way and then the other; at times, it seems like they’re involved in an elaborate dance.
The men in the bar are more animated than usual tonight. It’s so noisy the customers are forced to shout their orders and lean right across the counter to be heard. At times Frank even has to lip-read.
His eyes are soon smarting from the cloud of blue haze enveloping the room; it’s a wonder these city folks don’t get more than enough ruddy smoke without adding their own to it.
‘Could you go and prop those doors open?’ Grace asks, though it’s more an order than a question. ‘We’ll be fighting for breath before long if we don’t get a bit of air in here.’
Frank lifts the flap and plunges into the midst of the increasingly raucous crowd. Through all the smoke and good-natured jostling, he manages to locate the collection of old flat irons they use to pin back the doors. As the night air flows in, he stands outside for a moment taking in blessed lungfuls of clear air.
Not daring to be idle for too long, he heads back inside. Behind the bar Mrs Stevenson is holding her own despite the clamour for service. The woman certainly knows her way around the bar; there’s no denying she’s more than pulling her weight.
With only one till between them, they inevitably brush up against each other. Several times their hands meet as they scrabble for change out of the open drawer. Frank keeps apologising. ‘Sorry, after you, Mrs Stevenson.’
Finally, she holds up her free hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Will you please stop saying sorry every five minutes, Frank – I can’t stand that in a man. And for goodness’ sake, just call me Grace.’
‘I’m s– ’ He bites his lip just in time. ‘Right you are then, Grace.’
Despite being rushed off her feet, she keeps up with the to and fro of the conversations going on around them.
Wilf pushes his way through to lean on the damp and sticky counter. ‘Blimey, there’s a crush in here this evenin’ and no mistake.’
While Grace is drawing his pint of mild, he says, ‘Eh, darlin’, did you know while you were away in Brighton, they decided to get rid of the last of our baa lambs?’ He winks at her and then nods over towards Frank hoping to seed confusion.
‘So I hear.’ She puts his drink on the towelling mat. ‘Although I must say, Wilf, I always preferred to catch an Uncle Gus anyway. What about you, Frank?’ She turns to face him now and in her extraordinary eyes he sees the challenge.
‘Me – well now let me see.’ Frank’s picked up a fair bit of rhyming slang though he makes them wait for his answer. ‘I’d say, if I’ve got the necessary Arthur, I usually hail a sherbet.’
Amidst the general laughter, Thin Harry leans over to slap him on the back. ‘Well done there, me ol’ China. Nice to see you’re a man who can give as good as he gets.’ He slaps down a half crown. ‘Give me twenty do-me-goods and a box of swans there, Frankie.’
Dennis pokes his head round the door. He has his jacket over his arm and is turning his trilby in circles while he stands before his young wife. ‘I was goin’ to watch the television, like you said, but they’ve only gone and put a flaming ballet on. Load of people prancing around dressed like gypsies; I ask you – on a Friday night. Practically drives a man out. So I thought I might just pop down to the – ’
‘I thought we agreed.’ Grace gives him a long look and then glances down at the watch encircling her slender arm. ‘That Jimmy Jewel’s on the wireless in a couple of minutes – you like him, don’t you?’
Dennis’s face clouds over. It seems he’s been given his orders.
Thin Harry nudges Frank’s elbow and nods in their direction. ‘Comes to somethin’, don’t it?’ he whispers, ‘when a man’s own trouble and strife won’t let him put a bet on a nag or two.’
‘Oh. Right then,’ Dennis tells her. ‘If you’re sure you and Frank can handle things here, I’ll go back up. Give me a shout if you want any help.’
‘Don’t you worry, the two of us are managing just fine between us, aren’t we, Frank?’ Grace says above the racket. ‘There’s no room for the three of us behind here.’
Mopping his sweating forehead with his hanky, Dennis heads for their private quarters. His wife’s raised voice pursues him: ‘And don’t forget the man will need paying in full before he leaves here tonight.’
Chapter
Five
A brief lull in demand gives Grace a chance to turn to the big mirror and pin back some strands of hair that have been getting in her eyes. Despite how hard she’s been working and the way her mascara seems to have melted away in the heat, she’s pleased with how lively she looks tonight.
From her apron pocket she removes her lipstick (Red Flame by Coty) and reapplies it with care, pressing her lips together afterwards to make sure of an even spread.
Though nothing about the pub appears to have changed, there’s a different feel to the place. As she re-ties the back of her pinny, she takes a minute to check around her for anything that might have been altered in her absence. In front of her the three beers on the pumps are exactly as before; the usual bottles are on the shelves or under the counter, and even the spirits lined up next to the hatch for the saloon bar – all of them are in precisely the same order they were in when she left here last month and pretty much exactly as they were when she first began working here as a girl of seventeen.
Looking down, there might be a few extra scuffmarks on the walls but nothing to speak of. Certainly those ruddy floor tiles on this side of the bar are cracked in exactly the same places as before. (How long has she been on at Dennis to lay some new ones so they can clean the floor properly?) That familiar old galvanised bucket is sticking out from its normal place beneath the bottom shelf to the left, whilst its tangled mop is propped up, as always, next to the broom at the end.
No, not one solitary thing seems to have altered in this place – so why does it feel like it’s changed?
She doesn’t have to look far to her left to find her answer – Frank.
He’s a sizeable man, tall and well built – takes up a fair amount of space, that’s for sure. Ignoring his more obvious attractions – and you’d have to be half dead not to notice that handsome face of his – there’s something about his physical presence that seems to have affected the atmosphere in the pub.
Too Many Heroes Page 4
