Authors: Pamela Evans
Dick Stubbs cleared some empty tables and stopped for a chat with two elderly men who came to the café every morning for a newspaper and a cup of tea.
‘How’s your luck, me old mate?’ said one of the men, who was wearing a trilby hat and a dark suit despite the warm weather.
‘Not so bad,’ Dick replied.
‘It’s a bit better than that, I reckon,’ joshed the man. ‘This place must be a little gold mine.’
‘Hardly that,’ said Dick, ‘but it keeps the wolf from the door so I’m not complaining.’
‘It was a good idea of yours to open up a café here,’ remarked the man. ‘It’s somewhere for us to go out of the way while the missus is cleaning.’
‘Not half,’ agreed his friend.
‘It was my wife’s idea actually,’ Dick explained.
‘Good for her,’ the man enthused. ‘We don’t know what we’d do without it now.’
‘Glad you’re pleased.’
‘Will we see you in the local tonight?’ asked the man in the trilby.
Dick nodded, smiling. ‘I expect I shall come in for a quick one,’ he said, moving away as he saw someone approach the counter. ‘I’ll see you boys later.’
When he’d finished serving, he fell into reflective mood. All of this, the shop, the café, the satisfied clientele and the fact that he and his family were no longer on the breadline was almost entirely down to Flo. She made everything run like clockwork and it was her kindly nature that had enabled it to happen in the first place. She’d been astonished to receive a legacy from the old man she cleaned for, but knowing her as he did, Dick guessed she’d put more than just housework into the job. As well as extra favours like shopping and changing his library books she would have taken the trouble to listen if he wanted to chat, no matter how busy she was. Flo had the ability to hide her true feelings from the outside world. She could seem to be cheerful when her life was actually falling apart. Only he knew how much she had suffered when they lost young Geoffrey. Even May had been protected to some degree from her mother’s grief because Flo had considered it her duty to be strong for their daughter. Dick was well aware that he was married to a very special woman.
Their standard of living was better than it had been for years and working here was a pleasant enough way of life. But although he would never say as much to Flo after all her efforts, there was something missing for him. His trade! He was good with his hands and missed the satisfaction his work had given him as well as the atmosphere of the workshop and the male company. It had been hard graft compared to this but it was what he’d been trained for and he’d been proud to call himself a tradesman. Most of the time working here didn’t feel like work at all, except perhaps when it was his turn to get up at the crack of dawn to sort the newspapers for the rounds.
Still, he was a very lucky man in all other respects and he had no intention of complaining.
‘We have something new in that you might like to consider, madam,’ said May Stubbs to a customer at Bright Brothers Department Store where she worked as a junior in the lingerie department. A blond girl with the look of her mother about her, she opened one of the wooden-framed glass-fronted drawers behind the polished mahogany counter, took out a pair of pink satin French knickers with lace edging and spread them out on the counter. ‘We have them in white and blue as well. Beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘Indeed they are,’ agreed the customer, who was middle aged, attractive and well dressed though in matronly style like many women of her age. ‘But I’m not quite sure if they are right for me.’
‘For a special occasion perhaps?’ suggested May.
A sharp poke in the back startled her and she turned round quickly to see her superior, Miss Matt, glaring at her.
‘The customer has plain white knickers of the larger, comfortable variety,’ whispered the older woman. She’d been serving someone with a winceyette nightdress but had left that to flex her senior status muscles over May. ‘She’s been shopping here for years and that’s what she has.’
‘But these are so pretty, and new in, so I thought perhaps . . .’ began May.
‘Plain white interlock cotton with elasticated legs,’ hissed Miss Matt. ‘You should know that’s what older ladies prefer.’
May turned back to the customer. ‘I can see that you are doubtful about them, madam,’ she said tactfully. ‘Perhaps something a little plainer might be more to your taste.’
‘These are very nice, though,’ remarked the customer, fingering the lace lovingly.
‘My assistant is young,’ interrupted Miss Matt dismissively. ‘She’s still learning the job. You can trust us here at Bright Brothers to look after your best interests as always.’
‘The French ones are ever so pretty,’ began the customer, enthusiasm growing.
‘We have something much more appropriate,’ Miss Matt cut in speedily. ‘Get them, please, Miss Stubbs, and quick about it. You’ve kept the customer waiting for long enough already.’
May did as she was bid and laid a pair of huge cotton interlock bloomers on the counter, putting the others to one side.
‘Mm,’ murmured the customer. ‘They do seem a little . . . er, heavy in comparison. May I see the others again? The white ones as well, please.’
‘Certainly, madam,’ said May, leaning down to the drawer, feeling the full blast of Miss Matt’s disapproval and crushing her own urge to giggle.
‘But the lady purchased several pairs of each type of knickers,’ said May defensively, having had a thorough trouncing from Miss Matt as soon as the customer had made her way out of the store, which was all dim lighting and dark polished wood. ‘That must be good for business, surely.’
‘Personal service is what we pride ourselves on here at Bright Brothers,’ lectured Miss Matt, who was middle aged, plain and very prim. ‘We aren’t the sort of store to concentrate on a quick sale to boost turnover. We look after our customers so that they will stay with us in the long term.’
‘I thought we were also supposed to promote our goods and make recommendations,’ remarked May.
‘We are, of course, but our suggestions must be right for each individual customer,’ said the older woman.
‘The lady seemed very pleased with her purchases. I’m sure she’ll continue to shop here.’
‘If she does come back it may well be with a complaint against us for encouraging her to purchase inappropriate garments.’
May decided to push her luck. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude, Miss Matt,’ she began with the respect demanded of a junior, ‘but why exactly are the pretty ones inappropriate?’
‘The customer is a married woman of a certain age, not a Hollywood film star.’
‘If she can afford pretty underwear, why shouldn’t she have it?’ May enquired.
‘Because it’s the way things are,’ insisted Miss Matt, exasperated. ‘Why can’t you just do as you’re told without questioning every darned thing?’
‘I’m just naturally curious, I suppose,’ replied May, an energetic girl with bright blue eyes and a sunny smile.
‘Well you know what curiosity did; it killed the cat, so let’s have less of it please.’
‘But I thought the management would want us to take an interest in our work,’ persisted May.
‘That may well be so, but they certainly don’t want junior members of staff questioning the decisions of their superiors,’ claimed her colleague.
‘So are you saying that a woman has to wear hideous drawers for the rest of her life just because she’s over forty?’
‘She doesn’t have to, but most respectable older women do,’ Miss Matt explained. ‘It’s only right and proper. Besides, people like to be comfortable when they get older.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said May, finding it rather a dull prospect.
‘Anyway, that’s enough of your questions,’ said Miss Matt, bringing the conversation to a swift conclusion. ‘We’ve work to do. There is some new stock to put away and everything needs tidying up in the department.’
‘Yes, Miss Matt,’ said May politely.
May’s best friend Betty thought the French knickers incident was hilarious.
‘Oh you never tried to sell them to some old girl,’ she said, giggling as they walked home together through busy Ealing Broadway, past the Palladium Cinema and Lyons tea shop, the brightly coloured striped awnings being taken in as the varied assortment of shops closed for the day, the pavements crowded with people queuing for electric trolley buses and hurrying towards the station. ‘No wonder old Matty blew her top. You might as well try and sell satin knickers to your mother.’
‘The customer bought them anyway,’ May pointed out, ‘and good luck to her. I hope she enjoys them even if she does have a few grey hairs.’
‘At least you get to work with nice things,’ said Betty wistfully. A brown-eyed brunette the same age as May, she was employed at Bright Brothers too, in the bedding department. ‘All I see is boring old sheets and pillowcases.’
‘Come on, you do sell the occasional eiderdown,’ said May, teasing her.
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ retorted Betty, taking it in good part.
‘I must say, I do enjoy being in the lingerie department, though Miss Matt is a bit of a pain,’ admitted May. ‘At least I get to see a bit of glamour, even if I can’t afford it myself.’
‘Maybe we’ll have enough money to buy satin underwear one day,’ said Betty.
‘We certainly can’t at the moment on the wages we get from Bright Brothers,’ May responded.
‘We’ll have to wait and have it for our trousseau then.’
May laughed. ‘That’s looking a long way ahead,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to find someone to marry us first.’
‘You’ll be all right. You’ve got George,’ Betty pointed out.
‘George is just a friend and he’ll have lots of girls before he finally settles down, Mum says, and I’ll have boyfriends,’ added May. ‘She says I’m much too young to think about things like that.’
‘Mums always say that sort of thing,’ Betty remarked. ‘Mine is just the same. You’re too young for this that and the other . . . especially the other.’
The girls thought this was very funny and erupted into laughter.
‘I can’t imagine life without George,’ said May when they had recovered and were being more serious. ‘I’ve been close friends with him all my life and I know I always will be, whatever happens between us and no matter what Mum says.’
There was rather a long silence.
‘Anyway, will I see you after tea?’ asked Betty, moving on swiftly rather than linger on the subject of May and George and their special friendship.
‘I think I’ll go for a bike ride if you fancy coming,’ said May.
‘No thanks,’ replied Betty. ‘That’s far too much like hard work for me.’
‘As you wish,’ said May.
Betty nodded. ‘Where are you going to cycle to?’
‘Wherever the mood takes me,’ replied May casually. ‘I need the fresh air and exercise.’
‘Haven’t you had enough exercise, on your feet all day at work?’ said Betty.
‘Cycling is a different sort of exercise,’ said May, who’d had a bicycle from her parents for her fourteenth birthday. ‘It makes you feel really good somehow.’
Betty was sometimes in awe of her friend and often very envious of her. May had something that Betty lacked: an independent spirit and opinions of her own, whereas Betty tended to go along with the herd. Cycling to Richmond on her own was nothing to May; she even went all the way to Runnymede on her bike by herself sometimes. Betty didn’t do anything without company, but May would do things alone if she had no one to do them with.
The worst thing for Betty was the green-eyed monster with regard to May and George Bailey. Betty actually hated her with a passion over that. George was the best-looking boy around and he only had eyes for May. Always had! The confusing part for Betty was the fact that she loved May as a friend very much. She was great fun and there was no one else Betty would rather spend time with. So why did she hate her so much at times instead of being pleased for her? Betty, May and George had been friends since they were children, but there had always been something special between those two and Betty had always secretly resented it.
‘George will probably go for a bike ride with you,’ she suggested as reparation for being so ill willed.
‘Yeah, he might do,’ agreed May. ‘I’ll call at his house on my way out to ask him, though he may be going to the boxing club, in which case I’ll go on my own.’
‘No harm in mentioning it to him, is there?’ said Betty.
They headed past the train station on the other side of the street, the road crowded with motor vehicles, bicycles and some horse-drawn carts, and walked along by Haven Green alongside the railway line and into the back streets, chatting amiably until they came to Betty’s turning, which was the one before May’s road.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ said May.
‘Okey-doke,’ responded Betty.
‘I’m ever so hungry, Mum,’ said May, digging a knife into the potatoes bubbling in the saucepan on the gas stove. ‘These are done. Shall I drain them?’
‘Turn the gas off but better leave the spuds in the saucepan to keep hot while I make the gravy,’ Flo suggested. ‘The meat pie is ready.’
‘I’ll set the table,’ said May.
‘Thanks, dear.’
In the living room at the back of the house where the family had their meals and took their leisure, the front room only coming into use on special occasions, May took the tablecloth and cutlery from a drawer in the sideboard, pausing to look at a framed photograph of her brother and herself in the garden a year or so before he died. She would have been about eleven; he was nine. Every day she looked at this and still got a lump in her throat.
It seemed strange, even now, that Geoffrey wasn’t around anywhere,
ever.
They used to argue like mad – as siblings do – but they’d loved each other for all that. Being the elder she’d always felt duty-bound to look out for him, and after he died she’d thought it must be her fault.
She’d come to realise that it wasn’t after a while, but she missed having him around even if sometimes he had been her annoying little brother. Now it was just her and Mum and Dad. No other young person in the house to josh with; no childish squabbles, or shouts or giggles or standing united against parental authority. It was as though the youthful spirit of the house had died along with Geoffrey. She loved Mum and Dad dearly – and empathised with them all the time over the loss of their child – but they weren’t young. May had become an only child on that terrible day three years ago. There was something awfully lonesome about that.