‘I know.’ Her voice trembled.
In-between smoking she bit at her nails, a habit she hated but found impossible to stop. She used to try every so often, when Peter was alive. She would put false nails on to fool herself and enjoy how sophisticated it made her look but she never managed to break the habit. It didn’t matter much now, her nails would be broken anyway from all the extra jobs she was doing to keep the house shipshape.
I’m selling the house, she wanted to tell him, I can pay back the money then, more if it helps. But she had already had those conversations and they were like banging her head against a brick wall.
The phone rang and she raced to it.
‘Mrs Gough, we’ve a Mr and Mrs Jarvis who’d like to view this tea-time if that’s convenient.’
‘Fine,’ might be looking a bit empty by then, she thought.
Banging on the door. ‘Mrs Gough, we need to come in now.’
She swallowed. Heard the clock in the dining room start to chime.
How could they let her down like this? Something must have happened. She ran upstairs and looked out, praying for a sign of Ed’s Ford rolling down the street but there was nothing.
More hammering. She didn’t want them to break the door down. She undid the latch, stepped back, her face set with dislike.
The three men ignored her. The bald man led the way and she listened from the hallway, her face stony, as he made comments about the items in the lounge, telling the others which to take. She heard them go out and into the dining room, more discussion, a burst of laughter at which she stiffened. They trailed past her and up the stairs. She went and hid in the kitchen. Lit another cigarette. The man in charge came and sought her out. He had a list. He offered it to her but she could not bear to take it. She looked away. He read it out. ‘Matching armchairs and two-seater sofa, glass display cabinet, television . . .’
Even the television. And what would she tell Pamela when she came in and wanted to watch The Monkees or Mr Ed?
‘. . . Welsh dresser, dining table and four chairs, writing bureau, vanity unit with mirror, Turkish rug, washing machine. We’ll start moving it now. I need you to sign here.’
She sat there frozen but not unfeeling. Fury singing beneath her skin like sherbet. She heard them opening the drawers of the bureau. ‘Where do you want us to put the contents?’
She sighed. The thought of the precious things, of Pamela’s Holy Communion certificate, her baby bracelet, the photograph albums and letters from Peter when he had to stay the week in Sheffield or Leeds. She pulled herself up and went to fetch an old suitcase from under the bed. She began to empty the bureau drawers into it, trying to ignore the men, their patent impatience. When it was empty they lifted it up and carried it out. She would not cry, she bit her tongue, wiped her eyes, rubbed at the itching on her face.
‘Lilian, Lilian.’
Sally and Ed, anxious, breathless.
She went to them. ‘What—’
‘It’s all here!’ Ed held out an envelope. Had a ruddy flat coming up Wilbraham Road! Sorry.’
She took it from him and went out to the man in the suit.
‘It’s all here,’ she said, ‘the money.’
He sighed and cocked his head on one side, looked at her as though she was a tiresome child. Please take it, she thought. Please.
‘Cutting it a bit fine.’
She didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘’Ang on!’ he called to the lads. He pushed himself away from the side of the van and went to his car. He returned with a receipt, which she had to sign.
He spoke to the man and then drove off in his Wolsey.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Sally said. ‘Look at that lot gawking, nothing better to do. Come on, Lilian.’
The men began to unload the van.
The tea was hot and strong and Sally put a splash of brandy in everyone’s to steady their nerves.
There was no noise from the bailiff’s men and Lilian thought they were probably taking the chance of a break themselves now the boss had gone.
When she finished the tea she went out to look.
The van had gone. They’d pulled out her stuff and left it there, higgledy-piggledy on the pavement. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Pamela
She’d done her maths. They were doing algebra and she liked it. Once you knew the rules you could work it out. English was trickier. They had to write an essay on My Ambition.
She had some ideas. One was to be a brilliant gymnast like Olga Korbut, who had just won three medals at the Olympic Games, or maybe a swimmer like Mark Spitz. Swimming was more realistic, because Pamela was in the swimming team but she couldn’t do gym for toffee. Or maybe chess? She loved chess. She went to chess club after school and Mr Stenner said she had great promise. She got up to turn the LP over. Electric Warrior. T Rex. She moved the arm across, judging where the track started, and moved the little lever to lower it. Mum had bought her it for her birthday and she played it every day but there was only one scratch on it, because she was really careful. She didn’t have many records. She wanted Rod Stewart next. As the opening chords began and Marc Bolan’s voice sang out she returned to her work.
Her essay didn’t have to be realistic, you could pick anything. One thing that would be good would be to bring peace. Stop wars like Vietnam and the trouble in Ireland and save all those lives. And Ban the Bomb and stop Apartheid. All the things that were unjust. Like the Coca-Cola song said – teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. Her mum turned the telly off now when stuff about Vietnam came on. She got so upset. Pamela chewed the end of her biro and considered. She could be the first woman to walk on the moon. Hardly anyone got to do that. She liked the idea of floating, zero gravity. Mum had woken her to watch the moon landing. She said it was too fantastic to miss. So she’d got up at three in the morning and they’d watched Neil Armstrong climb down from the Eagle. You couldn’t see his face in the big, bubble helmet but he sounded so happy and proud. Imagine going all that way seeing the earth and then when you came back looking at the moon and knowing you had stood on it. But it was only Americans and Russians went and you had to wee in tubes and eat pills or suck stuff from packets for food. It would be awful not to have real food. Outside, it was raining steadily. Mum was watching telly in the front room. Monty Python was on later. Her mum thought it was silly, which was the whole point. Usually she left Pamela to watch it by herself, which was less embarrassing all round, especially with some of the freaky cartoons.
She bent down to write. My ambition is to be a world-famous chess player. A grand master, because no woman has done that yet.
Joan
‘Mind you, the Kinks have a huge following, and ‘Hard Day’s Night’ is still selling well.’
‘Bugger off, George,’ said Joan.
He grinned, poured more pale ale into his glass and tilted back in his leather chair. The room was stifling, the windows painted shut years ago. A small, cream fan made a whining noise but barely shifted the smoky air.
‘He will ring?’ Joan slouched on the sofa. She was drinking Pernod and water, smoking Gauloise. Her Francophile phase. The taste of the drink reminded her of aniseed balls, of the weekly trip to the sweet shop with her threepenny bit. Choosing between flying saucers and sherbet fountains, Spanish and Kay-lie, gumdrops and sour apples.
There was a racket from outside. She went and peered down. Ban the Bombers. She couldn’t open the window to shout her support but she raised her glass and blew a kiss to a guy dressed up like a clown. Most of them looked so ordinary she thought. She watched them pass. The atmosphere was good-natured. Strains of singing drifted up and the twanging sound of a skiffle band playing ‘When When The Saints Go Marching In’.
She slumped back on the sofa, adjusted her mini skirt. George had wandering eyes. He liked to look but he never tried anything else.
He peered across at her, narrowing his eyes against the smoke from his cigar.
‘What?’
‘You knew it was a winner . . .’
‘We don’t know yet.’
He used one hand to wave away her protest. ‘Any other virgin, if you get my meaning, wouldn’t have had all that stuff about royalties in their contract. But you knew.’
‘Hoped, George. Not knew.’
He blew smoke rings. ‘You’ll need an agent.’ He took a draught of beer, foam rimmed his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
‘You reckon?’
‘You’ve copyright to watch, cover versions. Rights for this, that and the other. S’pose Sacha wants to release a French version, different tax laws and all that. What if the television wants it for a theme tune? You don’t want to be bothering with all that. You need to keep churning them out.’
She balked at his description of her writing, pulled a face.
‘You need someone to take care of the business side.’
‘You?!’ She beamed at him.
‘Could do worse.’ He cleared his throat.
‘I’ll think about it.’
The phone shrilled. Joan sat bolt upright, slopping some of the drink on her bare arm.
George winked. She’d never seen him move quickly for anything. He had all the ponderous calm of an old camel and a similar face.
He picked up the receiver and grunted his name. He listened intently, nodding, his mouth pursed in concentration. ‘Tara, Bill.’ He replaced the receiver.
‘George?’ It was bad news, she could see. Maybe they hadn’t even broken into the top twenty never mind the top three. It had all looked so promising. Candy had sung it on Thank Your Lucky Stars. There’d been a rash of features about Candy too, all over the papers, linking her to a guitarist from Gerry and the Pacemakers. Every time she turned the radio on she heard it.
‘Sorry, Joan.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘I was going to take you out for a drink, bit of grub, but I don’t know if I’m fit company . . .’
She felt sick.
‘. . . not with you being the writer of this week’s number one top of the pops.’
Number one! She screamed and leapt to her feet. ‘You bugger, George! You rotten old pig! I thought we’d lost it. Number one. Oh, George!’
He raised his can. ‘“Walk My Way” by Candy, music and lyrics by Joan Hawes.’
She clinked her glass against his.
‘Endless success,’ he said.
‘Endless success.’
‘You, my dear, are going to make us both rich.’
She put her glass down. Hugged herself. Feeling childish but unable to contain herself.
‘So what do you reckon? Bite to eat? Bottle of bubbly?’
‘Definitely.’
He patted his pockets. ‘You any money?’
‘George!’
‘Only joking. You can pay me back.’
‘When hell freezes over.’
She wanted to run from excitement, turn cartwheels down the King’s Road and shout her news from the rooftops. But she couldn’t run in her heels and she’d never turned a cartwheel in her life. She contented herself with swinging her handbag and humming loudly as they went through the streets, her arms linked with George’s. What a strange sight they must make. George with his rumpled, shiny suit, his porkpie hat and rolling gait and she with her thick, black hair cut short like Rita Tushingham in A Taste Of Honey and latest make-up, red beret and knee-high boots. Dolly bird and sugar Daddy? If only they knew, she laughed, and swung her bag higher.
Pamela
They got the ferry at Hull. The coach drove on and then Mrs Whetton told them all to bring their coats and any valuables with them. The crossing would take three hours. Thirteen, and Pamela had never been abroad before. Everything fascinated her: the great metal structures in the boat, the excitement of setting off, watching the harbour side and all the men scurrying about with ropes. Then the launch. And the ship slowly turning, blasting its fog horn before they headed out to sea. She watched for a while. The buildings shrank and then disappeared from view and soon there was only the seagulls following in their wake and swooping down into the petrol-blue water.
‘I feel sick already,’ Eleanor told her. ‘I’m always sick.’