After Hours (11 page)

Annie looked at him tartly from behind the bar. ‘What'll it be, Joe?' To her mind, a man wasn't a proper man unless he could regulate his drinking and put his family before his own need to block out harsh reality.

‘The usual.' Joe sighed and rolled his cap to fit in the pocket of his worn jacket. ‘Times are bad, make no mistake,' he told. Arthur in his flat, sad voice. ‘A man in work is a lucky man, believe me.' Over the years, Joe's hangdog look had increased; he stooped under the weight of his responsibilities, his pale, thin face was lined as tissue-paper, and his wide mouth had turned down in a permanent scowl.

Annie noticed his hand shake as he raised his glass to his lips.

‘Go easy,' Duke warned Annie under his breath. ‘Make sure he can get home in one piece.'

‘I'll see him on his way,' she promised. Under the brand-new arrangement of Annie living at the bottom of the court, she could easily walk Joe home to Eden House.

Dolly Ogden's sharp ears picked this up. Tingling with curiosity, she leaned over the bar for a confidential chat. ‘You made a nice job of them front windows of yours, Annie. I seen you out there yesterday afternoon with your leather and bucket. Shining like a new pin, they are now.' She nodded her approval.

Annie sniffed. She intended to give nothing away.

‘Took me aback a bit, I can tell you.' Dolly creaked still closer, her old-fashioned stays straining against the bar-top. Like many of the older women, she stuck to the clinched and corseted look of her own youth. She derided the new, flat-chested style, showed off her cleavage and hid her girth behind strong laces and whalebone. ‘I never thought in a month of Sundays that I'd be seeing you move back in down the court!'

‘I seen you on your doorstep, Dolly.' Annie went on steadily serving. ‘I never seen you offering to lend a hand though.'

‘I never liked to butt in, Annie.'

‘Since when?' Annie put money in the till. ‘Pull the other one!'

‘Anyhow, I seen Rob and Ernie helping to carry your stuff down. Charlie was working, otherwise he'd've lent a hand.'

‘But not me with my bad back,' Arthur put in. ‘Can't lift nothing heavy these days. It goes without a by-your-leave, and there I am, laid flat out. I have to go steady on the allotment, else I'll put it out good and proper.'

‘But it don't stop yon lifting a pint glass,' Dolly observed. She felt cheerful; the pub's shiny mirrors and fancy windows took her out of herself, the company and a fine old gossip did her good. ‘Annie, you and Duke must have had a ding-dong battle for you to pack up your stuff and move out!'

‘No.' Annie clamped her mouth tight shut. She swept empty glasses from the bar and took them to the sink.

‘You can't fool me, Annie Parsons! It don't make no sense otherwise.'

‘It don't to you, Dolly. But it do to Duke and me.'

‘It ain't natural, Annie. A man and wife can't live in separate houses. I mean to say, Arthur here snores something shocking, but I ain't kicked him out of bed yet and we been married twenty-eight years.' She sighed; Arthur's snoring was one of the crosses she had to bear.

Annie knew it would only be a matter of time before the news broke. She spotted the sturdy figure of Bertie Hill come through the doors; she must tackle him about renting a room for Willie. Then the whole world and his wife would know. She shook her head at Dolly. ‘Wait and see,' she advised. ‘And don't go bothering Duke about it. You'll find out soon enough, and when you do, I don't want you poking your nose into what ain't none of your business, you hear me, Dolly?' She fixed her to the spot with the ferocity of her stare.

‘Me?' Dolly attempted outrage, but she knew Annie meant business; no tittle-tattle. ‘Don't take on, I'll mind my Ps and Qs,' she promised. Then she shook her head. ‘It don't seem right to me.' She thought Duke looked worried and worn out, and she could tell Annie was only putting a brave face on things. ‘It don't seem right at all.'

On the same Monday before Christmas, Sadie had to perform her own version of ‘doing the right thing'. She went to work, and after Turnbull's public dressing-down over the badly typed letter, she'd put her head down and got through more than her fair share of work.

She sat at a long desk with three other typewriters, all women. They were all under thirty, nicely dressed, their nimble fingers flashing across the black and silver keyboards, sitting upright at their tapping machines. The work may have been repetitive, and Turnbull's standards ridiculously high, but it was clean work, and they had the sense of belonging to the modern age, free of the slave labour of factory and domestic work.

Turnbull's bark was nasty, but it was worse than his bite. In fact, the chief clerk held uneasily on to his own job; the women had proved themselves to be fast and efficient office workers, and he knew that his era of pen and paper and handwritten ledger books had passed for ever. He was a tall, thin man with grey hair that grew low on his brow but was combed straight back in a thick, greased pelt. He wore a grey moustache and thick glasses. At home he had a wife ill with tuberculosis, and three grown-up, unmarried daughters.

When lunch-break finally came, Sadie made her excuses to the other girls and slipped out to the depot to see Walter. She hoped to find him alone; Rob had mentioned a business appointment and Richie had been given a day off. But she knew she had only half an hour to break her news. Her stomach felt tight ard fluttery as she half ran down Meredith Court, across the cinder yard into the gloomy garage.

Walter looked up from the desk with a smile. The sight of Sadie was enough to raise his spirits as he pored over the lists of figures which Rob had left for him to study. She came towards the office, stepping neatly between lathes and hoists, looking anxiously towards him. His smile faded as he came to meet her. He altered his expression and prepared himself for a serious talk.

Sadie had known Walter for most of her life. He'd been a pal of Rob's at school, then he'd worked at Coopers' and stood by the family all through Ernie's trial, before following Rob off to war. Unlike her brother, Walter had survived unscathed and come home to take up the old dream of running a taxicab business. The Army had helped build up his physique. His tall frame had filled out and he wore his wavy brown hair short and neat. He spoke
little about life in the trenches and he even hid his disappointment with King and Country when they failed to offer him a decent means of making his living. He saw other young East Enders, more prepared to skirt wide of the law than he was, rising in the world through dubious trading on the docks or on the markets. Others got themselves a training in trades he didn't understand or care for; hotel work in the West End, or making new-fangled electrical equipment in the great new factories that sprang up wherever they demolished the old blocks of flats.

Walter lacked the ambition of a Maurice Leigh, but he was steady and determined. Over Sadie he was downright dogged. This was the woman he set his heart on, once she'd outgrown her schoolgirl crush on Charlie Ogden. She had spirit and good looks, and the war had brought Walter enough self-esteem to suppose he could win her if he set his mind to it. He knew he was braver and more steadfast than other men, thought that even if it was a deficiency within him that had let him go over the top into enemy fire without hesitation, then this was the same quality that made him reliable and loyal. He had patience. He would save towards the taxicab dream, and he would be there for Sadie, to take her dancing or to her favourite pastime, the picture-house.

In time this had won her over. She knew other men who were flashier, funnier, more charming, but not one paid her the same level of attention as Walter. He admired her looks, her decision to better herself by taking typing classes at night-school, the ease with which she held down her job at Swan and Edgar. As far as Walter was concerned, she could do no wrong. To be quietly adored was not the fate of every girl she knew, so for two or three years Sadie had counted her blessings and basked in Walter's affection.

Now she knew that what she had come to say must hurt him. ‘Walter, I got something to say.' She took off her hat and sat down at the desk.

‘I heard about Annie and Duke. Rob told me.' He hoped this was it; that Sadie had slipped out of work to tell him her troubles at home. But it didn't seem to be that. She could hardly bear to look him in the eye.

‘It ain't that, Walter.' Sadie sat twisting the fingers of her gloves together. Though it's bad enough, believe me. No, this is about you and me.' She paused. How could she say that she meant to break off?

But this intimation was enough. Walter got up and turned his back for a second. Then he faced her. ‘You don't want us to go on no more?'

Hearing him speak it out loud was a shock. She felt her safe world go crash. But that was just it; it was too safe going out with Walter. She was twenty-five years old and she'd seen so little of the world, done so little for herself. People were bound to think that going out with Richie Palmer was no substitute for Walter Davidson, who ran his own set-up and adored her through and through, as anyone could see. Richie was footloose; a moody type who might take off one day, never to be seen again. But he'd kindled her desire, an uncomfortable name that let her know she was alive and desirable herself. She'd never felt that with Walter. She knew he respected and admired her, but he'd never treated her with true passion. She shook her head. ‘I don't think I do, Walter.'

He longed for her to deny it. He wanted her to vanish from the room. He'd raise his head again, and there she would be, dashing across the yard towards him during her lunch-break, a smile on her face. They'd talk of this and that. He'd kiss her soft mouth. ‘What happened?'

‘Nothing happened, Walter.' She hoped to get away without telling the whole truth.

‘Yes it did. You found someone else?'

She nodded once, then changed her mind. ‘No, not exactly. Only, I find I . . .
want
someone else. I ain't got him yet. I ain't cheated on you, Walt!'

‘But it's Richie Palmer,' he said quietly. Her silence confirmed it. He thought it through. ‘He ain't good enough for you, Sadie.'

‘You
would
say that.' She felt a spurt of defiance burst through her guilt.

‘But he ain't. He's a drifter. And have you thought what Rob will say now?'

She was angry. ‘What's it matter what Rob says? Or anyone else? What matters is what you say, Walt! I ain't heard about that, have I?' She stood up to face him.

‘What difference would it make?' He felt defeat settle on him. He wouldn't make a fool of himself by fighting. Pride held him up. ‘I ain't going to beg you not to do it, Sadie. I ain't that kind. You know how I feel about you.' Against his judgement, he reached out to put his arms around her. For a second, her head rested against his shoulder. When she raised it, her eyes were full of tears.

‘I'm sorry, Walter. I truly am.' She seemed to recognize and feel his distress. When a strong man was hurt, her tenderness overflowed. Yet she was the one to hurt him. In confusion, she pulled herself free.

He breathed a deep sigh. ‘I ain't gonna say nothing to Rob,' he told her. In his own mind this wasn't completely altruistic; the affair would grow out of proportion if Rob found out, and there'd be less chance of things blowing over and of his getting back to normal with Sadie.

‘Thanks.' She grasped his hands. ‘I'll tell them at home in my own time. And you won't take it out on Richie neither? It ain't his fault.'

This was harder to promise, but Walter quickly saw wisdom here too. ‘His job's here as long as he wants it,' he said. ‘As long as he keeps to time. And I'm here too, Sadie, waiting for you. You'll think of that sometimes?'

The tears flooded over as she nodded once and headed for the door. She was convinced now that she'd done the wrong thing. ‘I must be mad,' she said through her tears, ‘letting go of you, Walt.' He took a step towards her, she met him eye to eye, then turned away. ‘I gotta go now!' she whispered.

She sat red-eyed at her desk all afternoon, convincing herself that she would call it off with Richie. She would creep back to Walter and eat humble-pie, say what a terrible mistake she'd almost made, ask him to go on as if nothing had happened. Yet she knew again, as the black hand of the dock ticked towards six o'clock, that Richie would be out there waiting after work, and that
something strong in her would welcome the sight of him, that her good resolution would dissolve away, and that she would fling herself into their evening out together regardless.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday crawled by for Annie and Duke. Bertie Hill had cast the pub landlord an odd glance when the request came from Annie for a room in the tenement, but his rule was never to ask questions where money was concerned. ‘Tired of serving after hours?' he quipped. He took the first month's rent in advance and counted it out on to the bar. ‘Can't say I blame you neither.'

‘It ain't for me.' Annie faced him without blinking.

He looked up. ‘Oh, well, ain't none of my business.' His face had an insolent half-smile.

She resented his attitude. ‘That's right, it ain't,' she snapped.

‘It's room number five, down the back,' he told her.

She knew those odd numbers on the ground floor; they raced on to ash-pits and rubbish heaps stacked up against the factory wall. Their windows overlooked sooty bricks, the filthy yard bred disease and harboured rats. Her stomach turned. ‘Ain't you got nothing facing out front?' she demanded.

His small, mean eyes blinked, he shook his head. ‘A view costs extra. Besides, ain't none of them for rent right now.'

Annie knew quite well that Bertie Hill was lying. He shoved up the rents and stuck tenants wherever he pleased. It was useless to argue.