Bye Bye Love

Bye Bye Love Patricia Burns It’s 1953, Coronation Year and everybody is celebrating… Everybody it seems, except Scarlett Smith. In one day, she loses her Mum and her home as well. Now she and her father are adrift in Southend, moving from one grimy rented room to the next – the only happiness for Scarlett is her innocent romance with local boy Tom.Scarlett’s once-loving Dad can’t hold down a job – or keep off the drink. Scarlett must leave school to work in a factory, just as Tom heads off to do national service. With Tom away, Scarlett’s life is bleak, with the only highlight being the dance hall on a Saturday night.There Scarlett forgets her troubles with the lead singer of a rock ,n’ roll band – with disastrous consequences…Praise for Patricia Burns“The characters spring to life and simply walk off the page. ” Sally WorboyesOther books by Patricia BurnsWe'll Meet AgainFollow Your Dream Patricia Burns is an Essex girl born and bred and proud of it. She spent her childhood messing about in boats, then tried a number of jobs before training to be a teacher. She married and had three children, all of whom are now grown up, and she recently became a grandmother. She is now married for the second time and is doing all the things she never had time for earlier in life. When not busy writing, Patricia enjoys travelling and socialising, walking in the countryside round the village where she now lives, belly dancing and making exotic costumes to dance in. Find out more about Patricia at www.mirabooks. co.uk/patriciaburns Bye Bye Love Patricia Burns www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk) To Isadora, who carries our love into the future CHAPTER ONE IT WAS going to be a very special day. Not that there were any clues to it when Scarlett Smith woke up. Everything seemed much the same. There was the sound of her mother’s broom knocking against the skirting-boards as she swept the floors downstairs, there was the drone of a BBC accent coming from the wireless and there was the familiar smell, the one that Scarlett had grown up with, the smell of stale beer and cigarette ash. The morning smell of a pub. But today was June the second. Coronation Day. The Queen was going to be crowned Elizabeth II of England and it was going to be extremely busy at the Red Lion. Scarlett slid out of bed, washed in cold water, pulled on an old cotton dress and a cardigan and ran down the creaking stairs to the lounge bar. Joan Smith, a floral overall wrapped round her cosy body, was mopping the floor. She looked up with a smile. ‘How’s my darling girl this fine morning? Not that it is fine. It’s raining. Such a pity! And all those people sleeping out on the pavements in London to get a look at the Queen. It said on the news they was out in their thousands. Old people. Little kiddies. But they’re all in great spirits, they said. Ready to cheer and wave their Union Jacks.’ ‘Must be wonderful to be up in London,’ Scarlett said. ‘Yes—a once in a lifetime event. The fairy tale princess becomes queen.’ Her mother sighed. She leaned on the handle of her mop, a faraway expression in her eyes. Joan Smith loved a good story. A real life one featuring a real live queen was even better. Then she snapped out of it. ‘Still, we’re going to have a right old knees-up here, aren’t we? Morris dancers, tea on the village green—mind you, it might be in the village hall at this rate—and us open all day so as people can toast Her Majesty. No peace for the wicked! Come on, sweetheart, fetch a bucket and cloth and do the bars and tables for us. Sooner we finish, sooner we can have breakfast. I got fresh eggs. Old Harry brought us in a basin last night.’ Mother and daughter worked rapidly through the lounge and public bars, wiping, polishing, setting out clean ashtrays, fresh beer mats and bar towels, straightening the tables and stools. Nobody looking on would have guessed they were related. Joan was round and dumpy, her brown hair greying, her blue eyes fading, her hands cracked and swollen and knees stiff from a lifetime of hard work. Scarlett, at fourteen, was already taller than her mother, slim and strong with big brown eyes and long dark hair pulled back in a shiny ponytail, her coltish figure starting to develop into a woman’s body. ‘Don’t it look lovely?’ Joan said as they gave a last rub to the horse brasses on the beams. ‘Very patriotic,’ Scarlett agreed. The Red Lion was all dressed up for the Coronation. Outside there was red, white and blue bunting draped from the windows and over the sign, with a big Union Jack over the door, and inside more Union Jacks and flags from the countries of the great British Empire were hung around the bars. Pictures of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh and the little prince and princess had been cut out of magazines, framed with red, white and blue ribbons and stuck up on any available wall space. A specially brewed Coronation Ale had been delivered from the brewery a few days ago and was nicely settled and ready to serve to any of Her Majesty’s loyal subjects who cared to drink her health. Nobody could say the Smiths hadn’t made an effort. The two put away the cleaning things and Joan set about making breakfast in the kitchen-cum-living room behind the public area. It was rather a dark room, tacked onto the back of the main building and crowded with a table and chairs, sink and stove and dresser, and a sitting area of two Windsor chairs and a small fireside chair grouped round the fireplace. The big brown wireless set sat in pride of place on a small table next to the larger of the Windsor chairs. When Scarlett was little, the grouping reminded her of the Three Bears, and she would always be ready to guard her breakfast porridge against invasions of golden-haired thieves. Joan poured tea into a large white cup, put in three sugars, stirred it and handed it to Scarlett. ‘Go up and give your dad his cuppa, lovey.’ Scarlett walked carefully up the stairs. Her dad never made an appearance until half an hour or so before opening time, giving himself just enough time to check the beers, have a cigarette and look at the sports page of the newspaper before the first customers of the day came in. Scarlett tapped on the door of her parents’ bedroom, listened for the muffled reply from inside and went in. The curtains were still closed and the air smelt of beer fumes. Her father had had a hard night last night. The regulars had been getting in some practice at toasting the new queen and naturally the landlord had to keep them company. Victor Smith raised his head from the pillow as his daughter came in. ‘Ah—tea—what a lovely girl you are.’ He coughed, fumbled for his cigarettes and matches, lit up the first Player’s Navy Cut of the day and took a deep drag. ‘That’s better. Tell your mum I’ll be down soon.’ Scarlett raised her eyebrows at this. ‘Pull the other one, Dad.’ They both knew that pigs would fly and the moon turn blue before Victor made it to breakfast. Victor laughed, coughed and patted her arm. ‘You’re getting too knowing by half, you are. Sharp as a barrowload of monkeys. What’s two pints of best, a rum and black and a half of mild and bitter?’ Scarlett added them up in her head in a trice, then made up a longer round for him to calculate. It was a game they had played practically since she could count. As a result she was top of her class at mental arithmetic. ‘Can’t beat you these days,’ Victor admitted. Scarlett kissed the top of his head, left him to his tea and cigarette and went back to the kitchen. ‘He all right?’ her mother asked, whipping eggs out of the frying pan and slipping them onto a plate. ‘’Course,’ Scarlett said. When she was younger, she had accepted the idea that fathers lay in bed while mothers worked. Even when she’d realised that other fathers got up and cycled to farms and factories to start work at eight, or down to the station to catch a train up to London and start work at nine, she’d still accepted it because, as her mother pointed out, other fathers didn’t have to stand behind a bar each evening. But as she’d grown older she’d realised that it was her mother who served the drinks, cleared the glasses, changed the optics, emptied the ashtrays and washed up. Her father supervised. That involved leaning on the bar, chatting to the customers and sampling the stock. ‘Oh, but he has all the cellar work to do,’ her mother said when Scarlett questioned this. ‘Everybody says he serves the best pint for miles around.’ Which was true. The Red Lion and Victor Smith were famous for their beers, and he was known as a good landlord who made everyone feel at home but dealt quickly with any potential trouble. And though other dads might work harder than hers, none of them were more fun, or quicker to back you up when you needed it. All the same, she couldn’t help thinking that it would have been nice to have a bit more help today. ‘Here you are, poppet.’ Joan placed a blue and white striped plate in front of her. On it were piled two chunky slices of fried bread, a rasher of bacon and two large fried eggs, the whites crispy around the edges, just the way she liked them. Scarlett sat down at the rickety table with its checked yellow oilcloth cover. ‘Two eggs?’ she questioned. ‘Well—we need to keep our strength up,’ her mother said, but she only managed to work her way through one egg herself before she pushed her plate to one side and sat holding her teacup and staring at its contents. Scarlett looked at her. Anxiety stirred within her. ‘What’s the matter, Mum? You all right?’ ‘Yes, yes, quite all right.’ ‘You ain’t eaten your breakfast.’ Her mother never left food on her plate. It was a waste. After years of wartime rationing, nobody ever wasted a crumb. ‘I will. In a minute.’ Joan’s hands were shaking. She put the teacup down. ‘Mum? You’ve gone all pale.’ ‘It’s all right. I’m fine. Just a touch of heartburn, that’s all. Go and fetch me the Milk of Magnesia, there’s a good girl.’ Scarlett ran to the corner cupboard and got out the blue bottle. She gave it a good shake and poured the thick white liquid into a spoon. Her mother swallowed it down. ‘That’s it. That’ll do the trick.’ But still she pushed her plate towards Scarlett. ‘You finish it off for me, darling. Go on, before it gets cold.’ Scarlett did as she was told, though worry made it difficult to eat. ‘P’raps you ought to go to the doctor, Mum.’ ‘Oh, doctors—I know what he’ll say if I do. Take a tonic and get some rest. Rest! Who’s going to do my work if I rest, that’s what I’d like to know.’ ‘I could, if you’d let me.’ Joan patted her hand. ‘That’s very nice of you, dear, but you do quite enough to help round the place already. And you got your studies. You got to do well at school. That’s the way to get on in life.’ Scarlett sighed. She knew there was no shifting her mother on that point. ‘Well, get someone else in, then. Just someone to serve behind the bar on a couple of evenings, so you wouldn’t have to work every day. Everyone else has a day off a week, Mum. Why shouldn’t you?’ Unspoken between them was the fact that Victor went to football every Saturday afternoon and to the greyhound racing at Southend every Wednesday evening without fail. ‘Get someone in? A barmaid? Oh, I don’t know about that, lovey. We couldn’t afford the wages. Things are tight enough as it is, without starting paying other people to do what I can perfectly well do myself.’ ‘But Mum—’ ‘Look, I’m all right, see? There’s nothing wrong with me that another cup of tea won’t cure.’ She certainly didn’t look as white and clammy as she had done a few minutes ago. But Scarlett couldn’t shake the persistent anxiety gnawing at her overfull stomach. This wasn’t the first time her mother had had one of these turns. ‘But Mum—’ ‘Enough said, pet, right? I don’t want to hear no more about it. We didn’t come into this world to have an easy ride. You got to keep at it, like Scarlett O’Hara. She never let anything stop her. Wars, famine, whatever, she still kept right on. That’s why I named you after her, Scarlett. I wanted you to be like her—fearless, not a little mouse like me.’ ‘You’re not a little mouse, Mum.’ Scarlett had heard this story countless times before. It was one of her mother’s favourites. ‘Oh, but I was. Still am, really. Of course, I didn’t have much of a choice. I had to look after my mum and dad, didn’t I? First him and then her, both of them invalids. All those years.’ Joan sipped at a fresh cup of tea, looking inwards, back down the years. The commentator on the wireless was describing the crowds gathered for the coronation, but neither woman heard him. ‘Thirty-seven, I was, when poor Mum died. Never had a job, never went out dancing with young men, never done nothing except go to the library and borrow lots of books. Didn’t know how to do anything but run a house and look after invalids. And there I was, alone in the world with the rent to pay and no pension nor nothing coming in now they’d passed on, God bless them. So I thought I’d better get something doing the same thing. I couldn’t be a proper nurse—I didn’t have the training—but I thought maybe I could get something live-in with another invalid. And I guess I would have done just that, and been a poor old maid with no life of my own, if I hadn’t—’ ‘—met my dad,’ Scarlett said for her. Joan smiled. Her voice was soft with love. ‘Yes. Your dad. Oh, he was so handsome! Like a film star. Tall, dark, lovely black hair he had, just like yours, and those flashing dark eyes, and that lovely smile. Just waiting there at the bus stop he was. My fate. Just think, if I’d got there five minutes later, I’d of missed him, and then I wouldn’t be Mrs Smith now, and you would never of been born. Just think of that! No Scarlett in this world. No wonderful daughter to love and watch over. Best thing that ever happened to me, you are.’ ‘Oh, Mum—’ Scarlett leaned over and gave her mother a hug. ‘You soppy old thing.’ ‘I mean it,’ Joan insisted, hugging her back, stroking her hair. ‘I couldn’t ask for a better daughter than you. My Scarlett. Gone with the Wind. Oh, how I loved that book. Scarlett O’Hara was everything I wasn’t—she was rich and beautiful and brave and she didn’t care what she said or who she took on. And just look at you! You’re beautiful and brave, and maybe one day you’ll be rich.’ ‘Oh, yes, and then I’ll have a big house with a swimming pool, like a film star,’ Scarlett said. It was a game they often played, the When I Am Rich game. Sometimes it was Scarlett who was going to become rich, by marrying a millionaire or being a beauty queen, sometimes it was Joan, who was going to win the football pools. ‘Wasn’t so long since you wanted a pony and a pink taffeta dress.’ Joan sighed. ‘Now it’s a big house with a swimming pool.’ ‘Yes, well, I’m fourteen now,’ Scarlett reminded her. ‘Fourteen. Quite the young lady.’ Joan held her daughter’s face between her hands and looked at her long and hard. Then she gave a nod and stood up. ‘Yes, quite grown up. Grown up enough to read Gonewith the Wind. I’ll fetch it for you.’ She bustled out of the door. Scarlett started to clear the table and pile the plates up by the sink. At last she was going to be allowed to read the story that had figured in her mother’s tales ever since she could remember. Since she had joined the adult section of the public library, her hand had often hovered over a copy of the novel. She had even picked it up, opened it, read the first page. There was nothing to stop her from borrowing and reading it, nothing except the amazing grip it held on her mother’s imagination. It had been held out to her as a huge treat, something to look forward to, something almost as good as marrying a film star or winning the football pools, except that the sensible part of her knew that she would probably never do either of those things, whereas one day she surely would get to read all about her namesake. ‘Here we are.’ Her mother came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, breathless, holding her side. ‘Oh, dear me. Those stairs. I swear they get steeper every day. There—here it is. I’ve read it so many times it’s a wonder the pages haven’t worn out.’ Scarlett took the book and ran her hands reverentially over the cover. She looked at the spine. Gone with theWind by Margaret Mitchell. She opened it up and read the first line, the first paragraph, the first page. She was transported back ninety years or more to the front porch of a plantation house in Georgia. Such a strange world, so very different from her own. Her mother touched her shoulder. ‘Things to be done, pet.’ ‘Mu-um—’ Scarlett protested. ‘You can’t give it to me, then tell me I can’t read it!’ ‘Well, maybe I shouldn’t of, but we got to get going, love.’ Joan had her hands in the sink. The first of many lots of washing up she would be doing today, what with all the glasses people would be using. Scarlett read one more paragraph, sighed dramatically and walked over to pick up the tea towel. By the time Victor sauntered down the stairs the morning’s chores were all done and Joan and Scarlett were glued to the wireless. ‘What’s all this, then?’ he asked, squeezing Joan’s shoulder, kissing Scarlett’s cheek. ‘Slacking on the job?’ ‘Oh, it’s so wonderful,’ Joan breathed. ‘All the singing and that. He describes it so well. The people and the robes, all the colours. I just wish we had one of those televisions. It must be wonderful to watch it all going on.’ ‘It’s what we do best, ain’t it?’ Victor said. ‘Us British. We do pomp and ceremony best in the world.’ He pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette. Scarlett made her parents another cup of tea each and left them sitting contentedly, one either side of the big brown wireless, while she picked up the precious copy of Gone with theWind and went to her room to change. Like everyone in the country who could possibly afford it, she had a new dress to wear for Coronation Day. It was blue cotton with white polka dots, with a tight bodice and a fashionably full skirt. She tied a long red, white and blue striped ribbon round her ponytail and then turned this way and that in front of the small mirror over the chest of drawers, trying to get a full length view of herself. What she could see pleased her. She put her hands to her slim waist and pushed it in still further, smiling at her reflection. She might not be a southern belle like Scarlett O’Hara, but today was a special day and she was going to enjoy it. CHAPTER TWO ‘TWO more pints o’ that there Coronation Ale, if you please, young missy!’ ‘Coming up, sir!’ An anomaly in the licensing laws allowed Scarlett, as the licensee’s child, to serve alcohol even though she was too young to drink it. She pulled the beer carefully into the jugs, as she had been taught. It was no use rushing a good pint. Beside her, her mother pushed a strand of hair back off her damp forehead. ‘Scarlett, love, when you’ve done that, can you run round and get the empties? We’re almost out of clean glasses.’ ‘Righty-oh, Mum.’ The Red Lion was jumping. There was a roar of happy voices from both bars and a pall of blue smoke hanging over everyone’s heads. Nobody could remember seeing so many people in since VE day. Crowds of men and quite a number of women were packed into the two bars and children were running around on the village green outside clutching bottles of pop and shrieking. Everyone was in an excellent mood, and of course there was only one topic of conversation. ‘…she looked so beautiful, sort of stately, like…’ ‘…and the two little kiddies, they behaved so well, didn’t they?’ ‘That Queen of Tonga, she’s a character, ain’t she? Sitting in the rain there, waving away to the crowds!’ Scarlett squeezed her way between the cheerful customers. Those who had managed to get tables piled the empties up for her and handed them over. ‘There y’are girl, and here’s a few more. Can you manage? Oh, she’s a chip off the old block and no mistake. You going to be a landlady when you grow up, young Scarlett?’ ‘Not on your nelly,’ Scarlett said to herself. She had other ideas for her future. An air hostess, maybe, or a lady detective, tracking down ruthless murderers, or more practically, a lady chauffeur, driving rich and famous people about in a swish car. She wriggled past her father’s little group of regulars on her way out to the kitchen. Even he was on the business side of the bar this evening. He was only attending to his cronies, but at least he was doing that and he was keeping them well topped up. They were on whisky chasers, Scarlett noticed. ‘Ah, here’s the prettiest little barmaid in all of Essex,’ one of them exclaimed as she tried to force her way through. ‘Aren’t you afraid some young fella-me-lad will come and whisk her away, Vic?’ Her father smiled at her between the flushed faces. ‘Ah, she’s still Daddy’s girl, aren’t you, my pet?’ he said, lifting the flap in the bar to let her through. ‘That’s right,’ Scarlett agreed. Most of the boys she knew were gangling and spotty. Not like the heroes of books and films. There were more dirty glasses lined up on the bar. She piled those onto a tray with the ones she had collected already, staggered through into the back room and kicked the door closed behind her. ‘Phew!’ It was cooler and the air was much clearer out here. Better still, there were no raucous voices calling out to her. It was tempting to linger over the washing up, spinning out the time before going back into the bar. Her school friends would all be at home or round at friends’ or relatives’ houses enjoying themselves this evening. They’d be playing card games or watching repeats of the day’s ceremony on their new televisions, not rushing about working. She thought of the copy of Gone withthe Wind waiting for her upstairs. How nice to be able to slip up there now and escape into Scarlett O’ Hara’s world and just listen to the rumble of voices coming up from below, like she used to when she was younger. ‘Hey, Scarlett, my pet!’ Her father’s head appeared round the door. ‘Those glasses ready yet?’ ‘Nearly.’ Scarlett dried the last one and hurried out with the loaded tray. Her parents immediately grabbed them and started pouring fresh drinks. ‘Good girl—can you do the ashtrays now?’ her mother asked. ‘Yes, Mr Philips? Two best bitters and a mild, was it? And a G and T. Right. Mrs Philips here too, is she? How did the children enjoy the tea? All right, sir, be with you in a minute. Yes, I know you’ve been waiting. Scarlett, leave the ashtrays and serve this gentleman, will you?’ Scarlett concentrated on the impatient customer as he reeled off a long and complicated round. Over on the far side of the public bar, a sing-song had started. ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do—’ Others took up the song until the whole bar had joined in. ‘I’m half crazy, all for the love of you—’ ‘Two port and lemons, a rum and blackcurrant, half of bitter shandy, a Guinness—’ Scarlett muttered to herself, adding it up in her head as she went along. People in the lounge bar heard the singing and started up a rival tune. ‘Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves—’ ‘Oh, and a pint of Coronation Ale, love,’ Scarlett’s customer added, shouting above the noise. Both songs were going full blast, but the lounge bar crowd didn’t know all the words to Rule Britannia, so they contented themselves with singing the chorus three times and tra-la-ing in between. The public bar finished Daisy, Daisy and started on Roll out the Barrel. The lounge bar lot gave up competing and joined in too. Scarlett finished her round and took the money. As she rang it up on the till, there was a crash and a thud behind her. She spun round and cried out loud. Her mother was slumped on the floor surrounded by broken glass and a pool of beer. Her face was deathly pale and her lips a dreadful bluish colour. Scarlett bent down beside her. ‘Mum, Mum! What’s the matter?’ ‘Joannie!’ Victor crouched at the other side of her, patting her cheek, shaking her arm. His face was as flushed as hers was pale. ‘Joannie, what is it? Come on, Joannie, speak to me!’ Joan’s eyes were staring. Jagged groans tore from her mouth as she struggled to breathe. ‘What’s up? What’s wrong?’ People were leaning over the bar. ‘Joan’s had a funny turn.’ ‘Get her into the fresh air.’ ‘Get a doctor.’ One of the regulars lifted the flap and joined them behind the bar. ‘Come on, Vic, let’s get her out the back.’ In an agony of worry, Scarlett followed. She grabbed a cushion from one of the chairs to put under her mother’s head as the men lowered her mother gently to the floor, then Scarlett crouched beside her, holding her hand and feeling utterly helpless. What could she do? She wanted so desperately to help her mum and didn’t know how. A woman came in. ‘Can I help? I’m a nurse.’ Scarlett felt a rush of relief. Here was someone who could advise them. Victor welcomed her in. As she knelt by Joan, a man put his head round the door. ‘Someone’s gone for Dr Collins. How is she?’ ‘Thanks,’ Victor said. ‘I don’t know. She’s—’ ‘Ring for an ambulance,’ the nurse cut in. She looked at Scarlett. ‘You’ll be the quickest. Run over to the telephone. Do you know how to do it? Ring 999 and tell them it’s a heart attack.’ Fear clutched at Scarlett’s entrails. A heart attack! Her mum was having a heart attack! Wordlessly, she nodded and sprang to her feet. She was out of the back door, round the side of the pub and across the village green in seconds, running faster than she had ever run in her life. Her lungs heaving, she wrenched open the heavy door of the telephone box on the far side of the green from the Red Lion, picked up the receiver and dialled 999. She struggled to control her breathing so that she could speak clearly. ‘Ambulance—my mum—the nurse said she’s having a heart attack—’ A calm female voice on the other end of the line took the details and assured her that an ambulance would be with them as soon as possible. Scarlett replaced the phone and stepped out into the summer evening again. Everything was carrying on as if nothing had happened. Houses were bright with flags and bunting for the big celebration. Across the green, the door of the Red Lion stood open and children were still playing outside. Someone cycled past and called out a greeting to her. It all felt unreal, as if she were watching it on the cinema screen. This couldn’t really be happening, not to her. It was all too much, too fast. One moment she had been serving a customer, the next she’d been telephoning for an ambulance. A heart attack. It wasn’t right. Men had heart attacks, not ladies, not her mother. ‘Mum!’ she cried out loud. ‘Oh, Mum!’ She set off across the green again, ignoring the shouts of the children as they chased round her. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed two other figures hastening towards the pub. Something made her look again, and then she veered over to meet them. ‘Oh, Dr Collins, thank you, thank you—it’s my mum—’ ‘I know, I know—’ The doctor was an elderly man, past retirement age. Already he was out of breath, and the man who had gone to fetch him was carrying his bag for him. Like the rest of the village, he must have been celebrating, for he was wearing evening dress and Scarlett could smell drink on his breath. He put a heavy hand on her shoulder as he hurried along. ‘Don’t worry, young Scarlett—’ Scarlett hovered by his side in an agony of impatience. She knew he was going as fast as he could, but he was so slow, so slow! She wanted to drag him along. ‘Come round the back,’ she said as they reached the Red Lion. She knew as soon as she and the doctor went through the door. She knew by the way they were standing, by the way they turned as she entered the room. She knew by the look on their faces. ‘Mum?’ she croaked. ‘She’s not—? Please say she’s not—’ There was a ringing in her ears. Everything was blurred, everything but the woman lying on the floor, the dear woman who was the rock of her life, the one dependable point upon which everything else was fixed. ‘Mum!’ she wailed, running forward, dropping to her knees. She grasped one of the limp hands in hers, clasping it to her chest. ‘Mum, don’t go, don’t leave me!’ Hands were restraining her, arms were round her shoulders. She shook them off. ‘No, no! She can’t be dead, she can’t!’ Dr Collins was listening to Joan’s chest, feeling for a pulse in her neck. ‘Do something!’ Scarlett screamed. ‘You’ve got to do something!’ Two strong hands were holding the tops of her arms now. ‘Now, then, that’s enough,’ a firm female voice was saying. Scarlett ignored her. She was staring wildly at her mother, at the doctor, willing him to perform some miracle of medical science. But he just gave a sad little shake of the head. ‘I’m sorry, Scarlett—’ ‘No!’ Scarlett howled. Her chest was heaving with sobs, tears welled up and spilled over in a storm of weeping. Her father was there, kneeling beside her, pulling her into his arms. Together they rocked and wept, oblivious to the people around them. ‘She was the best woman in the world,’ Victor croaked. ‘A gem, a diamond—’ Scarlett could only bury her face in his broad chest and cry and cry. It was like the end of the world. After that came a terrible time of official things to be done. However much Scarlett and Victor wanted to shut out the world and mourn the dear woman who had gone, there were people to see, forms to sign, things to arrange. The funeral was very well attended. The Red Lion was a centre of village life. Joan had been there behind the bar all through the terrible war years and the difficult days of austerity afterwards. Everyone missed her round smiling face and her sympathetic ear. ‘She was a wonderful woman,’ people said as they left the church. ‘One of the best.’ ‘Salt of the earth.’ ‘She’ll be much missed.’ Standing by her father’s side, Scarlett nodded and shook hands and muttered thanks. ‘You’re a good girl,’ people said to her. ‘A credit to your mother, a chip off the old block.’ And all the while she wanted to scream and shout and rage against what had happened. This couldn’t be true, it couldn’t be happening to her. Her mother couldn’t really have gone and left her like this. But she had, and there was worse to come. CHAPTER THREE ONE Saturday about three weeks after the funeral, Scarlett walked into the lounge bar to find her father sitting on a stool at the bar counter staring morosely at a letter. He looked dreadful. There were bags under his eyes, a day’s growth of stubble on his chin and he hadn’t bothered to brush his hair. ‘We’ve got to get out,’ he said. Scarlett stared at him. ‘What do you mean, get out?’ ‘The brewery wants us gone. They’ve been holding the licence for us since your mum—’ He hesitated. Neither of them could bring themselves to say the word died. ‘But they won’t go on doing that for ever. They want a licensee on the premises to deal with any bother.’ Long ago when Scarlett had first learnt to read, she had asked why only her mother had her name above the pub door as licensee. She had been told that the brewery preferred to have a woman in charge and, since the brewery’s word was law as far as they were concerned, she had never really thought to question it. ‘But surely they wouldn’t mind having your name up there now,’ she said. ‘You’ve been here for years. Everyone likes you. They all say what a good landlord you are. The brewery must know that, surely? And I could help as much as possible. We can keep it going between us.’ ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ her father said. ‘What do you mean?’ Victor sighed. He dropped his head in his hands and ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up on end. Fear wormed through Scarlett’s stomach. This was her dad. When things went wrong, her dad was always there with his cheery manner, making it all right again. ‘Oh, we don’t have to bother ourselves about a little old thing like that,’ he would say. ‘Worse things happen at sea.’ Or, ‘It’ll all come out in the wash.’ And generally he was right. Up till now, whatever life had thrown at them, they had coped. Surely he could solve whatever was worrying him this time? ‘I can’t hold a licence,’ he admitted. Scarlett stared at him. ‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘Because I can’t, all right?’ Fear fuelled the anger that had been simmering in her ever since her mother had died. ‘No, it isn’t all right! You say we’ve got to leave here, leave the Red Lion, because you can’t hold a licence? I want to know why.’ ‘Look, it’s best you don’t know.’ The anger boiled over, all the irrational resentment at what had happened, even at her mother for going and leaving them when they needed her so much. ‘I want to know! I’ve got to leave my home because of whatever it is. I’ve got a right to know!’ Victor rubbed his face and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Because—’ his voice came out as a croak ‘—oh, God, Scarlett, this is so hard. Worse than telling your mother—’ ‘Go on!’ Scarlett raged. Victor still wouldn’t look at her. ‘Because I’ve got a record,’ he admitted. His whole body seemed to sag in defeat. Scarlett did not understand at first. She gazed at her big strong dad, who used to throw her up in the air and catch her, who could move the heavy beer casks around the cellar with ease, who could down a yard of ale quicker than anyone. All at once he seemed somehow smaller. ‘A record? What do you mean? What sort of—?’ And then the truth dawned on her. ‘You mean a police record?’ She couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t true. Her dad wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was everyone’s friend. He could not possibly be a criminal. Victor reached out to her. Instinctively, Scarlett went to the safety of his arms. She was folded into the comforting familiarity of his scratchy jumper, his pubby smell. She felt his voice vibrate through his chest as he struggled to answer her honestly. ‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’ Scarlett felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Her whole view of the world lurched, shifted and rearranged itself into a darker, more frightening picture. ‘What did you do?’ she whispered into his neck, as visions of robbery, of murder rose in her head. Desperately, she drove them down, hating herself for even entertaining such horrors. ‘Breaking and entering.’ A burglar. Her father was a burglar. ‘You went into someone’s house and—and stole things?’ she asked, appalled. ‘How could you? How could you do that?’ Wicked people did that. Her father wasn’t wicked. He was the kindest man in the world. She reared her head back, needing to see his expression. Victor looked stricken. ‘You think I don’t regret it?’ he countered. He held her by the shoulders now, his eyes boring into hers, willing her to understand. ‘There’s not a day doesn’t go by when I don’t wish I’d said no, but I was young and stupid, Scarlett. You got to remember that. It was wrong, I know it was wrong, but you got to think about what it was like then. Times were hard. It was back in the thirties, in the depression. Work was hard to come by and what jobs there was around wasn’t paid well. I’d just met this girl, a corker she was, and I wanted to impress her—’ ‘My mum?’ Scarlett interrupted. ‘No, no, this was before I met your mum. But this girl, I wanted to take her out, show her a good time, and I hadn’t any money. Then this mate of mine, he said he was doing some decorating at this old girl’s place, and she had more money than sense and she wouldn’t even notice if we took a few bits. But she did, of course. And we got caught, and I got sent down—’ He paused. Scarlett’s heart seemed to be beating so hard it was almost suffocating her. ‘One stupid mistake and I ruined my life. My family cut me off. My mother died while I was inside and my brother said it was from shame over me and none of them have had anything to do with me since. And of course when I came out nobody wanted to give me a job. Who wants a man with a record when there’s plenty of others with a clean sheet? I was on my uppers by the time I met your mum. She turned everything round. She believed in me. She was a wonderful woman, your mum. The very best.’ Scarlett couldn’t take any more. She twisted out of his grasp, marched out of the building and went for a long walk, turning everything she had just learnt over in her head. None of it made any sense. She finally found herself back home again with everything still surging around inside. It was midday opening and there were a few customers in the bar. Not wanting to speak to anyone, she ran upstairs, grabbed Gone with the Wind from her bedside table and hurried down to the far end of the garden. Neither of her parents had been keen gardeners, so the patch had gone wild since the days of digging for victory. Down at the far end, beyond the apple trees, was a hidden sunspot. Scarlett lay down in the long grass with the sun on her back, opened the book and escaped into her namesake’s world. A little later she heard her father calling her name. She kept silent. Then she heard him scrunching down the gravel path at the side. It sounded as if he was going out. Scarlett read on, immersing herself in the burning of Atlanta. Hunger finally drove her back inside. She walked down the garden with that faintly drugged feeling that came from living vividly inside another person’s life. The back door was open, of course. Her father had locked the front of the pub but nobody ever even thought of locking their back doors. As she went into the kitchen she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Six o’clock! Opening time, and her father wasn’t back. She put the kettle on, made a cheese sandwich and wandered into the serving area behind the bar, munching. Should she open up? She checked the till—yes, there was enough change. She ran an eye over the stock—yes, there was more than enough for the poor trade they were doing at the moment. But open up on her own—? In the kitchen, the kettle was boiling. Just as she was pouring the water into the teapot, her father walked in at the back door. ‘Scarlett! There’s my lovely girl, and the tea made too. What a little treasure she is.’ Scarlett regarded him. He was looking more cheerful than he had done ever since Joan had died. Almost elated. Despite everything she had learnt that day, hope surged inside her. Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded. ‘Southend.’ He spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘No need to worry any more, my pet. I’ve solved all our problems.’ ‘You have?’ ‘I have. I’ve got a job at one of those big places along the Golden Mile. The Trafalgar. And, what’s more, there’s accommodation to go with it. We’ve got a home and money. We’re going to be all right.’ Scarlett didn’t know what she felt—relief, anger, disappointment—it was all of these. On the face of it, her father had done just as he claimed. He had solved all their problems. ‘But we’ve still got to leave here,’ she said at last. ‘We’ve got to leave the Red Lion.’ Victor’s whole body seemed to deflate. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about that.’ Someone was thumping on the front door. ‘Anyone at home? There’s thirsty people out here.’ Victor ignored it. ‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, leaving all this—’ He waved his hand to take in the kitchen, the bars, the rooms upstairs. ‘I love it too, darling. Best years of my life have been spent here. But at least we got somewhere to go. That’s got to be good, now, hasn’t it, pet?’ Scarlett just shook her head. Up till now, some irrational part of her had held on to the hope that something might come up, that they might be allowed to stay. Now she knew it was really true. They were leaving. ‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think you’d better open up?’ Defeated, Victor went to unlock the door, leaving Scarlett to brood on their change of fortunes and all that it meant. It was only later that a faint feeling of guilt crept into her resentment. Her mother would not have reacted like that. Her mother would have congratulated him on his success in finding work and a roof over their heads. Sighing heavily, she made a cheese and pickle sandwich and a cup of tea and took it into the bar as a peace offering. Victor gave her a hug and turned to the little gang of regulars leaning on the bar. ‘Ain’t she just the best daughter in the world? A man couldn’t ask for more.’ Scarlett hugged him back and then turned to pick up the empties. As long as they still had each other, they would be all right. The next couple of weeks passed all too quickly. Before they knew where they were, Scarlett and Victor found themselves in the delivery van belonging to Jim, one of the regulars, being driven into Southend-on-Sea with all their worldly goods packed into boxes and suitcases in the back. There wasn’t a lot. Hardest of all had been deciding what to do with Joan’s personal possessions. Neither of them could bear to give away her clothes and of course they wanted to keep her books and ornaments, but it was things like her comb with strands of her hair still in it that had broken their hearts. In the end, they had put everything into boxes and brought it with them. They drove along the main road towards the town, then turned down a grand avenue with big houses on either side that led eventually to the High Street. In spite of herself, Scarlett began to take an interest. There were lots of shops with shiny big windows and displays of tempting goods. There were throngs of people, many of them obviously visitors in their seaside clothes. And there, at the end of the street was the sea, or rather the Thames estuary, grey-green and glittering in the summer sunshine. ‘Oh!’ Scarlett said out loud. Their chauffeur grinned. ‘Pretty, ain’t it? Nothing like the sea, I always say. You seen the pier before?’ ‘Of course,’ Scarlett said. She’d been to Southend before, lots of times, and you didn’t go to Southend without seeing the pier. But still Jim insisted on acting as her tour guide. ‘Royal Hotel on your right here, Royal Stores pub on your left, and there it is, the longest pier in the world. Longer even than anything in America.’ ‘Lovely,’ Scarlett said, as something seemed to be expected of her. And indeed she couldn’t help a traitorous lift of interest. The pier was an exciting sight, stretching out before her into the sea with its flags flying and its cream and green trams clanking busily up and down and its promise of fun and food and entertainment at the far end. ‘Do you think you’re going to like it here?’ Victor asked hopefully. ‘I don’t know,’ Scarlett said. It was all very different from their village. It might be exciting, but it was alien. It wasn’t home. She did not have long to admire the pier. The van plunged down Pier Hill to the sea front, and here they were surrounded by noise and colours and smells. There were ice cream parlours and pubs and amusement arcades and shops selling buckets and spades. There were families and big groups of men all dressed up for a day at the sea. Through the open windows of the van came music and laughter and shouting, dogs barking and children crying, together with wafts of candyfloss, fried onions, cockles and whelks. There was no hint of austerity here. Everything shouted, It’s a new beginning;let your hair down, enjoy yourself! They drove along the Golden Mile. Victor was looking eagerly out of the window. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘The Trafalgar.’ Scarlett followed his pointing finger. Their new home was a big yellow brick Victorian building between two amusement arcades. Two sets of double doors, closed at the moment, let on to the pavement and over the larger of them swung the sign, a painting of Lord Nelson’s famous ship, the Victory. ‘Best go round the back, I suppose,’ Victor said. They drove on past the pub to the corner where the Kursaal stood, with its dome and its dance hall and its famous funfair. Round they went and up a small road that ran behind the sea front buildings. It was quieter here. There were back fences and bins and washing and a general morning-after feel. They stopped by a stack of crates full of empty beer bottles. ‘I’ll go and see what’s happening,’ Victor said, and disappeared into the back yard. He came back with a young woman with a thin, over-made-up face and hair an unlikely shade of auburn. ‘This is Irma,’ he said. Irma looked at Scarlett. ‘So you’re the kid, are you? You’re lucky. Missus don’t normally like kids living in, but we’re short of a cellar man and it’s high season, I suppose. Bring your stuff and don’t make a noise on the stairs. Missus and the Guv’nor don’t like being disturbed when they’re having their afternoon nap.’ Scarlett decided then and there that she didn’t like Irma and she wasn’t going to like her father’s employers. Glaring at Irma’s back, she picked up her bag of most treasured possessions and, together with Victor, followed her through the yard. It was a concrete area, dark and damp and smelly, totally different from the back garden at the Red Lion. The building towered over them, tall and forbidding. There was broken furniture in a heap on one side and a pile of kegs waiting to be returned on the other. A skinny cat slunk away at their approach. ‘The Missus says you’re to have the top back,’ Irma said, leading the way through the back door and along a dark passage that smelt of damp and stale beer and cats. After a couple of turns and sets of steps and longer staircases, Scarlett was bewildered. How big was this place? How was she ever going to find her way around it? Irma stopped outside a door that looked just like the three others on the landing. She handed Victor a pair of keys tied together with a length of hairy string. ‘There y’are then. This is yours and that’s hers,’ nodding at the next door along. ‘Guv’nor wants you down at five to show you the ropes, all right?’ ‘Right, yes, fine. Thanks very much, Irma,’ Victor said. Irma clattered off down the lino-covered landing. ‘Well, then,’ Victor said. ‘Let’s see what’s what, shall we?’ He unlocked the door and stepped into the room. The faded cotton curtains were drawn and in the dim light they saw a single bed, a dark wardrobe, two dining chairs by a small rickety table and a chest of drawers with a cracked mirror above it. None of the furniture matched and the walls and lino and dirty rug were all in depressing shades of green, brown and beige. ‘Well—’ Victor said. ‘It’s got everything we need, I suppose.’ ‘It’s horrible,’ Scarlett said. She stepped over to the window and drew back the sagging curtains. They felt greasy. The view from the dirty window was of the back street they had come in from. She could see Jim there, still waiting by his van. She longed to rush back down and beg him to take her back to the Red Lion. ‘Want to see your room, pet?’ Scarlett sighed. ‘S’pose so.’ He unlocked the other door. This room was much smaller, hardly more than a boxroom, with just enough space for a single bed, a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers all set in a line along one wall. There was no rug, no wallpaper and the curtains didn’t quite meet in the middle. Scarlett hated it. ‘Better get our stuff in. Mustn’t keep Jim waiting any longer out there.’ Scarlett’s whole body felt heavy and listless. How was she going to bear living in this horrible place? Reluctantly, she followed her father down the maze of stairs and corridors to the back door. They unloaded the boxes into the back yard, thanked Jim, and lugged everything upstairs. By the time they had got it all in, Scarlett did at least know the way. As they unpacked, she began to feel just a bit better. The wireless was placed on the chest of drawers with her parents’ wedding photo and one of herself as a baby. Their crockery and cutlery and cooking things were piled on the table. Scarlett made the single bed up rather awkwardly with the sheets and blankets and eiderdown from her parents’ double one. Then she turned her attention to her own little room. Her small store of books, her old teddy, her musical box and the pink glass vase she had won at a fair were set out, her hair things and clothes were put away. A photo of her mother on a beach, laughing, went on a nail conveniently situated on the wall above the bed, while her pink and blue flowery eiderdown went on it. It should have made the room seem more like home, but somehow seeing the familiar things in this alien setting only seemed to emphasise just how different it all was. Her father tapped on the door and put his head round. ‘All right, pet? Oh, it looks better already, doesn’t it? You’re a born homemaker, just like your mum.’ Scarlett said nothing. She was trying hard not to burst into tears or scream with rage, she wasn’t sure which. ‘We’ll get one of those electric kettle things in the morning, so we can brew up,’ Victor went on. It was only then that Scarlett fully realised that something was missing from their new living arrangements. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’ she asked. Victor looked uncomfortable. ‘Well—er—there isn’t one. Not as such. But, like I said, we can get a kettle. And maybe one of those toasters. You know.’ ‘But we can’t live on tea and toast!’ Scarlett burst out. ‘How can we live in a place where you can’t cook?’ ‘Well—no—I’m sure there’s some way round it—’ ‘And the bathroom—where’s the bathroom?’ Victor was on firmer ground here. ‘Oh, I found that. It’s down the first flight of stairs, second door on the left.’ ‘So it’s not ours? We have to share it?’ ‘Er—well—yes—’ It was all getting worse and worse. Scarlett felt as if she were trapped in a bad dream from which there was no waking. Victor shifted uneasily. ‘Look—er—it’s nearly five. I got to go. Mustn’t be late for my first shift. Will you be all right here by yourself, pet?’ ‘Oh, fine, just fine,’ Scarlett said with heavy sarcasm. Her father reached out and patted her shoulder. ‘There’s my good girl.’ When he was gone, Scarlett went and sat on her bed. The place smelt all wrong. There were mysterious bangings of doors and muffled shouts coming from below. The tiny room seemed to close round her like a prison cell. It was all strange—strange and horrible. She reached for Gone with the Wind, but even that couldn’t distract her from the aching loneliness. She clapped the book shut, threw it on the bed and went out, clattering down the gloomy staircases towards the brightness and life outside. In the downstairs passage she stopped short. Coming in at the back door was a tall fair-haired boy. He was wearing salt-stained khaki shorts, a faded red shirt open at the neck and a pair of old plimsolls. His skin was tanned golden-brown by the sun and he had a rolled-up towel under his arm. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be the new cellar man’s daughter.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Jonathan. I live here.’ Scarlett took his hand. It was warm and strong. ‘I’m Scarlett. How do you do?’ His smile broadened into one of delight. ‘Scarlett? Really? Like Scarlett O’Hara?’ Scarlett found herself smiling back. ‘That’s right. My mother named me after her.’ ‘Well, I do declare!’ Jonathan said in a drawling southern states accent. ‘Welcome to the Trafalgar, Miz Scarlett.’ Suddenly, life didn’t seem quite so dreadful. CHAPTER FOUR JONATHAN’S first thought was that he made a very poor Rhett Butler. His first instinct was to keep her talking. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked, without thinking. It sounded lame the moment it came out of his mouth. ‘Oh—just out,’ Scarlett said. Scarlett—such a wonderful name. And it suited her. There was something wild and vivid about her. When his parents had said something about the new cellar man bringing his daughter with him, he’d not really thought about it. If he had any notion of what she might be like, it was a pasty-faced kid, someone who got in the way. Not a girl like this, with a challenging stare and a mobile mouth and the beginning of a woman’s figure showing through her thin cotton dress. ‘I’ll come with you, if you like. Show you round a bit,’ he offered. ‘I have been to Southend before, you know,’ Scarlett said. Jonathan felt horribly rejected. He hid it with a nonchalant shrug. ‘OK. If you’d rather be on your own—’ To his delight, she looked slightly flustered. ‘No…I mean…I just thought you might have something else you wanted to do,’ she said. ‘Tell you what I do want to do, and that’s eat,’ Jonathan admitted. ‘I’ve been out all day in the Ray, and I’m starving.’ ‘The Ray?’ Of course, stupid of him, she wasn’t local, she wouldn’t know what he was talking about. ‘It’s a channel of water out in the estuary beyond the mud-flats,’ he explained. ‘You sail out on the falling tide, then you can spend all day out there sailing and swimming and having races and that, and playing cricket on the Ray Sands. It’s brilliant. Do you sail?’ Scarlett shook her head. Her ponytail of dark, almost black hair shivered in glossy waves. ‘We lived in the country.’ ‘Can you swim?’ ‘Oh, yes. I learnt at school. I got my hundred yards certificate.’ ‘Then you’ll have to come out with us one day. If you want to, that is.’ He found he was holding his breath. How wonderful if she said yes. ‘Thanks—yes.’ He felt like punching the air. Fancy taking her out for a whole day on the water! His mind raced, turning over how to bribe his friend to let him have the boat to himself, what time they would have to start, all the things he wanted to show her. But for now he had to keep her attention. ‘Are you hungry?’ She appeared to consider. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ She sounded almost surprised. He ran over the logistics in his head. It was just about the worst time to start cooking now. He came up with an interim plan. ‘Let’s go and get some chips, then. Irma or Marlene might want the kitchen at the moment, but we can go in when the pub opens and everyone’s busy.’ ‘Marlene?’ Scarlett said. ‘Yes, she’s the other live-in barmaid. Haven’t you met her yet?’ ‘No. Won’t your mum be expecting you?’ she asked. Jonathan had to stop himself from giving a derisive laugh. His mother, expecting him? That would be the day. ‘Oh, she doesn’t know I’m in yet,’ he said, which was true. ‘You never know quite when you’re going to be back when you’ve been out in the boat. So do you fancy some chips?’ Scarlett nodded. ‘Yes, please. I’ll just go and get some money.’ Suddenly it seemed very important that she didn’t leave. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some,’ Jonathan assured her, jingling some change in his pocket. ‘But I—’ ‘Look, I’ll get them this time and you can next, all right?’ She hesitated a moment, then agreed. He couldn’t believe how smoothly it was going. In the past when he’d tried to talk to girls, they’d either go all giggly and silly or look at him as if he were some lower form of life. But Scarlett talked to him like…well, not quite like a friend, because there was more to it than that. He didn’t know what, couldn’t put a name to it, but it was there all the same. Walking with her along the sea front, Jonathan felt ten feet tall. They could all see him with this pretty girl, all the people he knew. He glowed as the funfair attendants called out to him, the girl behind the ice cream stand waved, the elderly Italian lady winding pink candyfloss round a stick blew him a kiss. When they got to the chip shop, he was greeted like a long lost son by the big motherly woman behind the till whom he always called Aunty Marge, although she wasn’t any sort of relation. ‘Ah, here’s our Jonno! Talk about return of the wanderer. You been avoiding us or something? Look at you, you’re fading away. You need a good feed-up, you do. Douggie!’ she called to the equally large man sweating over one of the fryers. ‘Nice big bag of chips for our Jonno. And stick a pickled egg in while you’re about it.’ Jonathan grinned. ‘Thanks, Aunty Marge. And my friend Scarlett here’d like some chips as well.’ Scarlett stood up well to being scrutinised. ‘Scarlett, eh? And where’ve you sprung from?’ ‘My dad’s just started work at the Trafalgar.’ ‘Oh, so you’re going to be living down here, are you? Going to be one of us. What do you think of it so far?’ Scarlett shrugged. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. Jonathan winced inwardly. Aunty Marge was not going to take kindly to such a lukewarm reaction. ‘All right? All right? You’ve come to live in London’s playground and that’s all you can say for it? Shame on you! You’ve not been trying hard enough, Jonno. Go and show her all the sights. Give her a ride on the speedway.’ ‘I’m going to, Aunty Marge,’ he assured her. ‘Right.’ Aunty Marge gave Scarlett one more up-and-down look. ‘Pretty girl. Needs more flesh on her bones, though. Better stick an egg in hers as well, Douggie.’ To the annoyance of the queue of hungry customers, Jonathan and Scarlett’s bags were handed over ahead of everyone else’s. They shook on lots of salt and vinegar, Jonathan paid and they both promised to come back soon. Outside seemed pleasantly cool after the steaming heat and overwhelming smell of boiling fat in the chip shop. He watched as Scarlett tried a chip. It was so fresh out of the fryer that she could hardly hold it. Crisp on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside, Aunty Marge’s chips practically melted in the mouth. ‘Cor, lovely!’ Scarlett mumbled, breathing air in to stop her mouth from burning. ‘Best chips on the Golden Mile,’ Jonathan claimed. ‘Come on.’ He led the way across the wide road, past seafood stalls and ice cream kiosks to lean on the rails overlooking the beach. He loved this view, loved it in the winter when it was empty and windswept, and in a different way now in the summer, when it was crowded with day-trippers. Families were packed together on the pebbly sand, the mothers and fathers sitting in deckchairs with their knitting and their newspapers, the children digging sandcastles, paddling and filling pails of water. At the water’s edge, a big open sailing boat was waiting for passengers to come aboard for a ride out on the sea. Beyond that, cockle boats bobbed at their moorings and, as a backdrop to it all, marching out into the sea was the pier. ‘So where do you come from?’ Jonathan asked in between chips. ‘A village the other side of Rochford.’ ‘And what brought you here?’ ‘My dad needed a job.’ ‘It’s just the two of you, is it?’ ‘Yes.’ It was obvious that she was uncomfortable, that she didn’t want to talk about it. He recalled what his mother had said about the new cellar man. ‘Bit of a loser, if you ask me. But what can you do? It’s high season and we need someone.’ He tried a different tack. ‘It was nice, your village?’ ‘Oh, yes—’ Scarlett started to tell him about it, a faraway look on her face. It all sounded pretty ordinary to him. She went on to describe the pub where she had lived, the Red Lion. ‘It was such a nice little place.’ She sighed, licking her finger and dabbing up the last pieces of crispy potato round the bottom of the bag. ‘It had lovely old beams, and lots of horse brasses, and benches against the wall outside. My mum and me kept it all spick and span. And in the summer I always kept a nice jug of wild flowers on the bar. Just to make it look homely, like. And at Christmas we really went to town, holly and ivy and paper chains and everything. It looked really lovely. And people used to cycle out from Rochford, and even from Southend just to have a pint with us. My dad kept the best pint for miles around. Everybody said so.’ ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Jonathan said politely. ‘A proper village pub. Very different from the Trafalgar.’ He gazed out to sea, to where huge cargo ships were making their way up the Thames to the London Docks, deliberately avoiding looking at Scarlett as he asked the obvious question. ‘So why did you move here?’ ‘Oh…well…you know…like you said, it’s different. A new start.’ She tried to make out it was a good thing, but it didn’t quite sound convincing. ‘Right,’ Jonathan said. He knew just what was going on. He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Parents, eh? What can you do with them? They say it’s all for the best and they’ve got your best interests at heart and all that sort of rot, but when it comes down to it, they never listen to you.’ Scarlett hesitated, then said, ‘Too true.’ In front of them, the beach was beginning to clear. Mums were packing up picnic baskets and cleaning sand off tired children’s feet, dads were folding away the deckchairs and searching for lost buckets and balls. Jonathan glanced at his wrist, realised he wasn’t wearing a watch and stretched across to take Scarlett’s arm, turned it slightly and looked at the time. The living warmth of her arm beneath his hand sent a hot thrill through him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘I left mine at home. No good wearing one on the boat, it might get ruined in the water. It’s gone half past six; shall we go back and get something proper to eat? The chips made a nice amuse bouche but I’m dying for a proper meal.’ He could have kicked himself. It sounded so pretentious. ‘Amuse bouche?’ Scarlett questioned, her forehead creasing in thought. ‘Mouth amusement?’ Jonathan laughed with relief. She hadn’t thought he was trying to get one over on her. ‘Well done. That’s more than most people know. It’s a French restaurant term. It means a little twiddly tasty bit before the real starter, or in between courses. Something to keep the appetite interested before the next main event.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ Scarlett said airily. Jonathan screwed up his chip paper and lobbed it into the nearest litter bin. ‘Come on, the kitchen’ll be all ours now.’ As they made their way back through the raucous crowds and close-packed heat of the Golden Mile, he tried to decide just where to take her. What was she going to think if they stayed in the staff kitchen? It was going to look really unfriendly, as if he thought she wasn’t good enough to be invited upstairs. But his mother was so adamant about not letting staff into their private quarters. Not that Scarlett was staff, of course, but that was stretching the point a bit. He tried to assess the odds against his mother coming in and finding them there. It was high season, and it was Friday evening, the second busiest night of the week. She should be run off her feet in the bar all night. But if she was to pop up for something…no, it just wasn’t worth the risk. By the time they arrived at the dark rear of the Trafalgar, Jonathan had made his mind up. He led the way to the staff kitchen, which looked out over the yard. ‘I’ll just run upstairs and get some stuff,’ he said. ‘You won’t have had time to do any shopping, will you, what with moving and all that?’ ‘No, well, there wouldn’t be much point, would there? We’ve got nowhere to cook,’ Scarlett said. Jonathan was mystified. ‘But this is the staff kitchen. Didn’t you know that? You and Irma and Marlene share this.’ ‘Oh…’ He could practically see light dawning on her expressive face. ‘My dad must’ve forgotten to tell me,’ she said. ‘Yeah, right,’ he agreed. ‘Look, make yourself at home. I won’t be a mo. Perhaps you could put the kettle on for me?’ ‘OK.’ Mercifully, she didn’t seem put out to be left there. He raced upstairs, unlocked the heavy door marked ‘Private’and went into the kitchen. If only he had known he would be cooking for a girl! As it was, he would have to improvise with what was around. He opened the cream-coloured door of the American refrigerator and took out bacon, eggs and cream, then rummaged in the cupboards for pasta, onions, garlic, olive oil and ground coffee. He piled the whole lot into a basket together with the chopping board, his French chef’s knife and the percolator. A glorious mix of excitement and nerves churned inside him. Supposing she didn’t like his cooking? Supposing she laughed at him? But she couldn’t—she mustn’t—because that would mean the end of their friendship before it had hardly started. He galloped downstairs again to find the kettle starting to whistle while Scarlett leaned against the chipped enamel sink staring out at the back yard. There was a horribly bleak expression on her face that cut right through him. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, dumping the basket on the table. Had his mother been in and had a go at her? His heart sank at the thought. ‘Oh…nothing…’ She straightened up, forcing a smile. ‘Only you looked…well…’ ‘I’m all right. Really. What on earth have you got there?’ She moved over to look at the contents of his basket. ‘Just a few things to make a meal. Would you like to be my commis chef?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have that boiling water in a big saucepan with salt in, please, and butter and some olive oil in a frying pan.’ ‘Olive oil?’ Scarlett questioned. ‘Olive oil’s for putting into your ear when you’ve got earache.’ Jonathan stopped himself from laughing. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know, any more than most people in this country did. ‘Mine isn’t,’ he said, handing her the bottle. ‘Mine’s for cooking, and making salad dressings.’ Scarlett made a face and looked at the French writing on it. Cautiously, she poured a small pool of oil into a pan. Jonathan got on with skinning and chopping a couple of onions. Scarlett stared at him as he sliced them expertly with a rocking motion, just as he had been taught. ‘How did you learn to do that? Did your mum show you?’ Jonathan laughed. ‘Mum? No, Mum hates cooking. I’ve got French relatives. I go to stay with them most summers.’ Wonderful summers with lovely Tante Jeanne-Marie, who tucked him under her wing with all her other chicks and made him feel loved and wanted. Racing around on bikes and swimming in the river with the cousins… ‘And they make you do the cooking for them?’ Scarlett was saying. He wrenched himself back from sunny days in Mont Saint Etienne. ‘Far from it! I’m allowed to help. My aunt’s a wizard cook. Her brother’s a chef and owns a restaurant. They’re all really keen on food. It’s not like here at all. They all sit round the table and discuss what they’d like to eat for the coming week, then they go to the market together and buy the fresh stuff, and they argue while they’re going round even if they’ve agreed beforehand what they want, like, if they’ve bought some lamb, should they cook it this way or that, and what other things they need to get to go with it, and whether they’ve got the right stuff in the larder at home. It’s really interesting. It makes you think about tastes and flavours and textures and how things go together and complement each other.’ Scarlett was gazing at him in amazement. Jonathan felt hot, and then defensive. Food was important. If she didn’t realise it now, then he would prove it to her. He crushed a clove of garlic with the blade of his knife, chopped it into minute pieces and put it in the pan with the onions where they sizzled merrily, giving off a glorious smell. ‘What was that?’ Scarlett asked. ‘Garlic.’ Garlic was what foreigners were supposed to stink of. Well, at least foreigners knew how to eat. ‘Are you doing something French now?’ Scarlett wanted to know. ‘No, this is Italian, because I’m starving and there’s nothing like a big plate of pasta for filling you up,’ he explained. ‘Pass us the spaghetti, would you?’ ‘Spaghetti?’ Scarlett looked at the ingredients on the table. She was searching for the stuff that came in a tin, he guessed. ‘In the blue packet,’ he prompted. She found the right thing and watched as he opened it up. ‘It’s like long thin macaroni,’ Scarlett said. ‘Same family. It’s all pasta.’ Jonathan stood it in the pan, gradually pushing it under the boiling water with a wooden spoon as it softened. ‘Have you got an Italian aunty as well?’ ‘No—I learnt this off Mrs Mancini along the road. She’s only got girls, so she sort of adopted me. I was a really skinny kid, and she used to sit me in her kitchen and feed me up until I couldn’t move.’ There was a time when he’d spent more time with the Mancinis than he had at home. He was always made to feel welcome there. Jonathan chopped, stirred and tasted. He added bacon lardons, beaten eggs and cream. Finally he drained the spaghetti, mixed it with the sauce, divided it between two plates and put one down in front of Scarlett with a flourish. ‘Spaghetti alla carbonara!’ ‘Wow—’ Scarlett looked suitably impressed. ‘It smells delicious.’ She picked up her spoon and fork and tried to capture the slippery pasta. Jonathan remembered the first time he had eaten spaghetti, when he was about eight, how Mrs Mancini had stood behind him and guided his hands, her comforting warm body pressing into his back. ‘It’s a so-and-so to eat, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There’s a knack to it—look—’ He demonstrated. Scarlett copied, with much laughter. ‘I did it! I did it!’ she cried, as she managed to get the perfect amount of spaghetti twiddled round her fork. She carried it to her mouth, and her eyes closed with pleasure. ‘Mmm—gorgeous—’ Jonathan relaxed. She liked it. Everything was well with the world. They ate and they talked, they found they liked the same music, the same films. Jonathan made some proper coffee in the percolator, another new taste for Scarlett, and they began a long argument over whether Rock Hudson was a better actor than Clark Gable. He was just acting out a scene to prove his point when the door opened. ‘Jonathan, I thought I could hear your voice. What on earth are you doing in here?’ It was his mother. Jonathan broke off in mid-sentence. ‘I was just…’ he began. But she wasn’t listening. His mother was staring at Scarlett as if she were an armed robber. ‘And just who might you be?’ she demanded. CHAPTER FIVE THE newcomer was a hard-faced woman of forty or so with grey eyes as cold as pebbles and a helmet of wiry brown hair. She was staring at Scarlett with undisguised hostility. This must be the Missus, whom Irma had said mustn’t be disturbed and didn’t normally allow children. Scarlett disliked her on sight. ‘I’m Scarlett Smith, Victor Smith’s daughter,’ she said, holding that cold gaze unflinchingly. ‘Really?’ The eyes swept over her again. ‘I thought you were younger than… How old are you?’ ‘Fourteen.’ As soon as the word was out of her mouth, Scarlett wondered if she should have lied. Supposing her father lost his job because this dreadful woman didn’t like girls her age? Two or three hours ago, before she’d met Jonathan, she would have been glad to get out of this place, but now it was different. She had a reason to stay. The Missus’s mouth closed into a straight line of disapproval. ‘Hmm. You look older. Well, you’re more than old enough to know where you should and shouldn’t be round here. No going in the bar area during opening time, or at any other time unless you’re specifically told to by me or the Guv’nor, and no going into our flat upstairs, even if Jonathan here invites you. Is that clear?’ ‘Very.’ Scarlett’s original dislike was turning into loathing by the second. She couldn’t remember ever having met such an unpleasant woman. She glanced at Jonathan. He was looking acutely embarrassed. She immediately felt overwhelmingly sorry for him. How dreadful to have a mother like that. ‘Good.’ The Missus held her eyes for a few moments more, as if she knew of the resentment boiling within her and was enjoying it. Then she turned to look at her son. ‘You’d better get upstairs straight away.’ ‘We haven’t washed up yet,’ Jonathan said. ‘Never mind that. She can do it. I take it that’s our food you’ve been giving her?’ ‘I was making her feel at home,’ Jonathan stated. ‘So I can see. Now you’ve done it, you can go upstairs.’ ‘Not until I’ve cleared away.’ Jonathan stood up and started piling the plates and cutlery. Taking his cue, Scarlett picked up the cups and saucers. She was about to take them over to the sink when a hand descended on her shoulder and held her in a grip of iron. It was all Scarlett could do not to cry out. ‘You—’ the Missus’s voice was low and menacing in her ear ‘—put those down.’ ‘You’re hurting me!’ ‘Mum!’ Jonathan yelled. ‘Put. Them. Down.’ Scarlett did so. ‘You’re not at your own place now, young woman. You’re at my place. You can’t do what you like—you do what you’re told. Understood? You and your father can be out on your ear at any time. Now, go up to your room.’ She was released with a push towards the door. Shocked, Scarlett stumbled round the scarred table. Nobody, not even the scariest of teachers, had ever spoken to her like that in her life. In the doorway she paused and looked back at Jonathan. He was flushed with anger. Scarlett’s courage flared. Ignoring his mother, she spoke to Jonathan. ‘Thanks ever so much for that supper. It was the best meal I ever tasted.’ His tense face relaxed into a smile. ‘My pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’ ‘OK.’ And she made off before his mother could ruin it. By the time she had run upstairs to her room, she was shaking with fear, anger and a sort of wild triumph. She and Jonathan had not let that witch have the last word. She slammed the door shut behind her and flung herself on the lumpy bed, her heart thumping. ‘You cow,’ she said out loud. ‘You cow.’ And it swept over her how far away from home she was. The life she had known—the Red Lion, her friends in the village—all of that was gone for ever. Much more than that, her mother had gone. While they had stayed on at the Red Lion, it was as if she had just gone away on a visit for a while. Her spirit was in every nook and cranny of the place. Even though Scarlett had seen her dead on the kitchen floor, had been to the funeral and seen her lowered into the earth of the churchyard, still she had felt her mother there, just beyond touching. But this place was different. It was cold and hard. Her mother would never reach her here. Scarlett lay on her face and wept. She must have gone to sleep at last, because the next thing she knew was her father bending over her. He kissed her cheek, shut the door gently and went out. Scarlett slid once more into a sleep of emotional and physical exhaustion. When she woke again it was morning. She realised she was fully clothed and lying on top of the covers. Outside, seagulls were crying. It was the first full day of her new life. The Trafalgar was still horrible, the Missus was still a dragon, her old life was still gone for ever, but in daylight it somehow didn’t seem quite as bad as it had last night. She lay there for a moment thinking about Jonathan. What a nice person he was, and full of surprises. Had he meant it when he had asked her to go sailing with him? Sometimes when people said things like that, they didn’t really expect you to take them up on it, but somehow she thought that when Jonathan said something, he meant it. She desperately hoped so. With Jonathan here, her new life was bearable. She slid out of bed to get her washing things and go to the bathroom, and noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor. It looked as if it had been pushed under the door. She picked it up, and found to her delight that it was a note from Jonathan. Dear Scarlett, Sorry about the way things ended tonight. I hopeyou’re still speaking to me. If you are, would youlike to go up the pier or something tomorrow? I’llbe in the kitchen at half past nine. Yours sincerely, Jonathan He had written it last night! And he had come over to her room to deliver it in spite of that cow, his mother. Scarlett put her thumbs in her ears, waggled her fingers and stuck out her tongue in the general direction of the flat at the front of the pub. So much for her, the interfering old witch. She went to get washed. The bathroom was as repellent as the rest of the staff accommodation. The lino on the floor was curled and cracked, the bath and basin had brown stains on them where the taps dripped, there was green mould growing in one of the corners and there were notices taped up, all written in fierce black capitals: Leave this room as you would wish to find it. Staff are allowed one bath a week. Do not waste the toilet paper. No more than three inches of water allowed in the bath. Scarlett flushed several lots of paper down the toilet and washed under a running hot tap. Once she was dressed, Scarlett thought she had better see how her father was. She tapped on his door, got no answer, knocked harder and finally opened it and put her head round. Victor was still asleep. She was just about to close the door again when he woke up with a start. ‘What? I didn’t…oh, Scarlett, it’s you, love. Come in. What’s the time?’ ‘Half past eight.’ ‘Oh—thank God. For a moment I thought…I got to be downstairs by half nine. Mustn’t be late, not for my first full day.’ He felt for his packet of cigarettes and lit one up to help him face the morning. Downstairs by half past nine! Now, there was a novelty. Scarlett had enough tact not to say so out loud, though. Her father looked dreadful still. ‘I’ll go and make some tea while you go to the bathroom,’ she offered. ‘Would you, pet? That’d save my life. Oh—but what about milk?’ ‘I know where to get that,’ Scarlett said proudly. Jonathan had pointed out the whereabouts of the corner shop yesterday. ‘I’ll be back by the time you’re dressed.’ As good as her word, she walked into the room with the breakfast tray just as Victor was doing up his shoelaces. ‘You’re a treasure,’ he said. They sat at the rickety table, Scarlett with a bowl of cereal, Victor with his cup of tea and second cigarette of the day. Washed and shaved, he looked a bit better. ‘I looked in on you last night, but you were sound-o,’ he said. ‘It’s some place this, isn’t it? Bit different from the dear old Lion.’ ‘It’s horrible,’ Scarlett said. Awkwardly, her father patted her shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to it. We both will,’ he said, though it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself just as much as Scarlett. ‘It’s just so big and…well…not exactly cosy, is it? You should see the turnover they have here! The ale I served last night! It was just nonstop from opening to closing. They come down here on the train and the charabancs and all they want is to get pie-eyed as quickly as possible. They was queuing up outside the door at six, and when the Guv’nor opened up it was like a tidal wave coming in. They was three deep at the bar before you could turn round. I never saw anything like it in my life.’ It was no wonder he looked tired. That had been Friday night. Today was Saturday, and likely to be even busier, and here he was up and dressed well before his usual time. Scarlett got up and gave him a hug. After all, they were in this together. ‘You’ll be all right, Dad.’ ‘Yeah, well—I got to be, ain’t I? But thanks all the same, love.’ Scarlett glanced at the clock that used to stand on the mantelpiece at the Red Lion. ‘Twenty-eight minutes past, Dad.’ Victor sighed, took one last drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out and stood up. ‘Better go, then. Oh—’ He looked at Scarlett with new concern. ‘What about you, love? Will you be all right? I don’t know how long this is going to take. I might be down there till opening time, and then it’ll be well gone two before I get up here again.’ ‘I’ll be all right, Dad,’ she assured him. ‘Now go on—it’s time!’ She hurried him out of the door, stacked the breakfast things and clattered down the stairs. For the first time since her mother died, she had something nice to look forward to. It didn’t last long. The moment she opened the kitchen door, disappointment hit her like a brick. Jonathan was not there. With leaden feet, Scarlett went over to the sink and started washing up. In the time it took to wash the dishes, she had gone through a whole sad scenario in her head. Jonathan had changed his mind and gone off sailing with his friends, he would avoid seeing her in future and his horrible mother was going to make her life hell. Scarlett felt utterly alone. ‘Oh, Mum…’ she said out loud. How desperately she wanted to feel those comforting arms around her, to nestle her head against that warm shoulder, to hear that lovely reassuring voice. ‘Hello! Sorry I’m a bit late. My m—I had to do some things before I left.’ Jonathan! Hastily, Scarlett brushed away tears with the back of her hand. But she couldn’t quite control the wobble in her voice. ‘Hello—’ She turned to face him, trying to smile, and saw his cheerful grin fade to concern. ‘What’s the matter? Has Irma been foul to you? She can be a right cow at times—’ Scarlett shook her head. ‘No—’ ‘What, then? Has—?’ ‘It’s nothing. I’m all right, really.’ Part of her longed to tell him everything, but it was too soon. She knew that if she talked about her mother, she would start crying and never be able to stop. She could feel it all dammed up inside her, waiting to burst out. Jonathan came and leaned against the sink. ‘You’ve got to be careful with Irma. She sucks up to my mum all the time, and she’ll snitch on you for the tiniest thing. I’ve seen her get people sacked for stuff she’s made a song and dance about when really it’s not been that important. So watch out. Leave all this nice and tidy for a start, or she’ll get in a right tizz with you.’ Scarlett nodded, not trusting herself to speak yet. ‘Look…er…do you fancy going up the pier or something?’ Jonathan asked. Scarlett managed something like a real smile. ‘Yes. That’d be nice.’ There was still a great black pit of grief inside her, but a day out with Jonathan was a shaft of light. ‘You’d best go and fetch a mac or something, then. It looks like it might rain later.’ Scarlett stacked the clean dishes in an empty cupboard and ran upstairs, running over the contents of her wardrobe in her mind. What to wear? Her only raincoat was the grey one she wore for school. Apart from that and the rest of her school uniform, she had a couple of summer dresses, some shorts and blouses and a smart suit for best that used to be her mother’s and had been altered to fit her. When she got to her room she looked out of the window. Jonathan was right, it did look pretty grey out there. The suit was definitely not right for walking up the pier. She already had on a clean cotton dress with a pattern of pink and red flowers, so she added the red cardigan her mother had knitted her. Reluctantly, she picked up the horrible school mac. At least its pockets would be useful for carrying a handkerchief and some money. On the way down she called in at the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face. Looking in the mirror, she practised a smile. She stood back and considered the full effect. She tightened the tie belt round her waist. Not bad. Not eighteen inches like her namesake, but it made her figure go in and out in all the right places, and who wanted to wear a corset like those southern belles? With a lighter heart, she went to join Jonathan again. The sea front was just coming to life as they walked towards the pier. Shutters were being taken down, doors opened, premises cleaned. Just like yesterday evening, people greeted Jonathan as they went along. As they passed the Golden Cod, Aunty Marge’s husband, Douggie, was opening up. ‘Morning Jonno, and young Scarlett!’ he called. ‘Off somewhere nice?’ Immediately, Scarlett felt a little less strange. It wasn’t yet like the village, where she knew everyone, but at least somebody recognised her. ‘Morning! We’re going up the pier,’ she called back. ‘That’s the way, go and enjoy yourselves. You’re only young once.’ Past the boating lake they went, and the full scale model of The Golden Hind, and up the steps to the pier. ‘Walk up and train back?’ Jonathan suggested. For the first time since her mother died, the leaden feeling had left Scarlett’s limbs. She had her energy back again. ‘Good idea!’ They went round the pavilion, paid their entrance money and started up the long wooden walkway. ‘Just think, even the Yanks haven’t got one longer than this,’ Jonathan said. They marched along, first over mud, then over ever-deepening water. The wind tugged at Scarlett’s ponytail and whipped colour into her cheeks, the salt air freshened her face and filled her lungs. She felt alive again. By the time they were approaching the far end, a rain cloud was looming. ‘Come on, run!’ Jonathan cried, snatching at her hand. Together they raced up the walkway, past the train station and into the first amusement arcade, just as the shower arrived. Laughing and panting, they watched the heavy raindrops dimple the water and lash against the windows. ‘Made it!’ Scarlett said. Her hand was still tingling from where he had pulled her along. Jonathan turned away from the window to look at the nearest machine. It was a miniature crane in a glass case surrounded by a sea of small fluffy animals and cheap plastic dolls. ‘What would you like?’ he asked. Scarlett had tried to win something from similar things in the past. It was very difficult. Just as you got the end of the grab over the thing you wanted, it either closed too soon or didn’t catch hold of the prize properly. ‘A kitten,’ she said. Jonathan put his money in the slot, positioned the grab and dropped it over a white kitten with green glass eyes. The ends closed over its head. ‘You got it!’ Scarlett squealed. Up went the crane. The kitten wobbled in the feeble grip of the grab. ‘Careful, oh, careful!’ Scarlett gasped. She held her breath as the crane end juddered across the case to hover over the exit hole. The kitten was released from its grasp, landed on the lip of the hole, balanced for a second or two and toppled in to appear in the pocket on the outside. Jonathan picked it up and placed it in Scarlett’s waiting hands. ‘Oh, you’re so clever!’ Scarlett cried, delighted. She stroked the soft fur with her finger. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ Jonathan said modestly. The rest of the day followed on the same high note. They explored all over the various decks, listened to the band, watched the steamers from London come in, visited the lifeboat and had beans on toast and tea in a caf?. When the sun came out, they played deck quoits; when it rained, they laughed at their contorted images in the hall of mirrors or wandered round the amusement arcades and put pennies in the laughing policeman and the haunted house and turned little handles at furious speed to beat each other at horse racing. At the end of the afternoon, they were leaning over the rail on the sun deck watching a steamer come alongside. The sailors threw the ropes, the men on the pier secured them, the gangplanks were run out and the passengers streamed ashore from their day trip to Herne Bay. Idly watching the crowds, one figure caught Scarlett’s attention. Her heart seemed to turn over in her chest. That hairstyle, those shoulders, that walk— ‘Mum!’ she cried out, starting towards the steps that led down to the lower deck, pushing people out of her way. ‘Mum, wait—!’ Then she stopped short. Of course it wasn’t her mother. Her mother was— The whole happy day came crashing down around her. Her mother was dead. She would never see her again, never hear her voice or feel her arms around her. She was gone. Scarlett collapsed onto the step and wept, her grief all the more bitter for having been almost carefree only a few moments ago. ‘Scarlett? Scarlett, what’s the matter, what is it?’ Scarlett just shook her head and cried all the harder. How could Jonathan understand? The pain of it tore at her. An arm came round her shoulder. ‘What is it? Was that your mother? We can catch up with her, Scarlett. We can find her. It’s not too late. Come on, I’ll help you.’ ‘No, no—’ Scarlett tried to shake him off. ‘It’s not…her. She…she died. On C-Coronation day.’ ‘Oh, Scarlett…’ his shocked voice was close to her ear. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He didn’t tell her to stop crying. Instead she felt his other arm go round her and gently pull her towards him. Helplessly she sobbed on his shoulder while he patted her back and hordes of happy holiday-makers swirled past them. At last she subsided into sniffs and hiccups. She pulled away from him. ‘I’m s-sorry.’ ‘It’s all right.’ ‘I’ve spoilt your day.’ She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘No, you haven’t. It’s been a super day. Look…er… p’raps you’d like to go home now?’ Home. Home was the Red Lion. Scarlett shook her head. ‘What, then?’ She didn’t know. She couldn’t stay here on the pier, not now, but neither did she want to go back to the Trafalgar. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Come on.’ Jonathan stood up and held out his hand. Scarlett let him pull her to her feet. Together they made their way towards the tram station. CHAPTER SIX ‘I ALWAYS thought there was something a bit dodgy about him,’ Jonathan’s mother said as she sat over her breakfast tea. ‘There’s always going to be something wrong, ain’t there?’ his father said. ‘Stands to reason. Man his age, if he ain’t got a place of his own, there’s a reason why.’ He wiped the last of the fried egg from his plate with the last of the fried bread and sat back with a sigh of contentment. ‘That was first class, Jonny lad. Done to perfection. You ain’t got any more out there, have you?’ ‘Nope, but there’s toast coming up,’ Jonathan called from the kitchen. He came into the living room with the toast rack and placed it on the table in front of his parents. The big main room of the flat had three large windows looking out over the estuary. Morning light flooded in to show off the ornate dining table and chairs, the large new three piece suite, the glass-fronted cabinet filled with china ornaments, and the modern electrical goods. There was a television in pride of place in front of the suite, its purple screen dead now as programmes didn’t begin till the evening, a large wireless on the sideboard, tuned to the Light Programme, and a record player on a side table with a huge pile of dance band records stacked beside it. Jonathan’s mother helped herself to toast and spread large dollops of butter and marmalade. ‘Well, yes, there was sure to be something,’ she said, returning to her original topic of conversation, ‘but with this one it’s everything. To start with, his timekeeping’s useless. I don’t think he knows how to tell the time. When you tell him he’s late, he gives you that daft vague look of his and says, “Oh, is it that already?” as if he’s no idea. I could kill him, I really could.’ Jonathan ate his own toast, a feeling of doom settling uneasily in his stomach. She was talking about Scarlett’s dad again. What if they gave him the boot? What if he and Scarlett then moved somewhere the other end of the country? It would be terrible. ‘He does know how to keep the beers,’ his father said, swigging down his tea. ‘I’ll give him that. Trouble is, he’s too darn fussy. Throws stuff away! I caught him getting rid of nearly a gallon yesterday. Said it wasn’t good enough. “It’s good enough for our customers,” I told him. “They’re not here to taste the quality, they’re here to get pissed. You mix that in with the next lot and it’ll be quite all right. They won’t notice anything wrong with it at all.” You should of seen his face! You’d’ve thought I’d asked him to strangle his grandmother.’ ‘He was famous for his beers when he had his own place. People used to cycle out from Southend just to drink at his pub,’ Jonathan said. Both parents looked at him as if they’d only just realised he was there. ‘Who told you that?’ his mother asked. ‘That girl, what’s-her-name?’ ‘Scarlett,’ Jonathan reminded her, regretting having opened his mouth. He knew just what she was going to say next. And she did. ‘Blooming stupid name to give a kid.’ Jonathan said nothing. He’d already had this argument with his mother several times. ‘And you know what I said about her,’ she went on. ‘You’re not to hang about with her. Staff are staff. They’re not for consorting with.’ She glared at his father as she said it. He took a sudden deep interest in the racing pages of the newspaper. Jonathan felt sick. How could she compare what he felt for Scarlett with his father groping the barmaids? But it was no use even trying to explain. She wouldn’t understand. ‘You’re far too young to be going around with girls, anyway,’ his mother said. ‘You’ve got plenty of friends, you should be with them, off sailing or something. Who are you watching the carnival with?’ ‘The gang,’ Jonathan said. It was true, he was going with his schoolfriends, but Scarlett was coming along as well. It would be the first time she would see the carnival. They planned to walk along to Westcliff and watch from the cliff gardens. ‘Well mind you’re back by seven. We’re going to be chock-a-block here tonight and we’ll need you to collect glasses,’ his father said. ‘Yes, right,’ Jonathan agreed. Really, they only ever wanted to know where he was when they wanted his help or didn’t approve of who he was with. Most of the time they couldn’t care less. Which was quite useful because ever since that first trip up the pier, he had spent practically every day of the holidays with Scarlett. ‘And if you see her—what’s-her-name—Scarlett—you can tell her she can earn some pocket money washing up. Flaming Marlene’s got the gutache so she’ll be no use to us today,’ his mother said. ‘Right—I’ll ask her.’ ‘You’ll tell her. There’s five bob in it for her and I expect her to be there by seven, all right?’ ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Much to his surprise, Scarlett was delighted. ‘Oh, good, it’ll be nice to earn some money. And if you’re bringing the glasses out we’ll see something of each other.’ It was a bright summer’s day as they wandered along the sea front towards Westcliff. The crowds were already out, milling around Peter Pan’s Playground, buying their ice creams and candyfloss and spilling onto the beaches to swim and dig and sit in deckchairs. ‘We’ll go to the Never-Never Land one evening, if you like,’ Jonathan said as they passed the part of the cliff gardens that were filled with models and grottos and were lit up at night with coloured lights. ‘It’s for kids really, but it’s all right.’ ‘That’d be lovely,’ Scarlett said, gazing across the road to where a miniature fairy tale castle stood at the entrance to the attraction. It gave him such a thrill to be able to show her things she’d never seen before. Together they had roamed all over town, visiting parks and shops, walking right along the sea front to Thorpe Bay in one direction and Leigh-on-Sea in the other, and testing out the beaches and the swimming in various places. He had taken her out sailing and been proud of how quickly she had taken to handling a boat. Sometimes she was sad and quiet, and nothing he could do would shake her out of her mood, but other times, like today, the real Scarlett would shine through her grief for her mother. ‘Oh, I’m so looking forward to this,’ she cried, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘I’ve heard so much about the carnival, and now I’m going to see it.’ ‘It’s the first time for me as well,’ Jonathan reminded her. ‘I was always over in France in the summer the last few years, and before that, of course, it was wartime.’ ‘Do you miss not going over there?’ Scarlett asked. ‘It sounds such fun, being with all your cousins.’ ‘I was really disappointed when Tante Jeanne-Marie wrote and said I couldn’t come because they were all going down with the chicken pox,’ Jonathan admitted. ‘But now I’m really pleased, because this has turned into the best summer holiday I’ve ever had.’ ‘Oh, good,’ Scarlett said, sliding her hand into his. ‘Because it’s the best summer hols I’ve ever had too. I thought I was going to hate it here, but then I met you.’ Guilt coursed through him as he thought of the news he still hadn’t told her. He’d been on the point of it several times. He’d rehearsed it in his head. Scarlett, youknow how I want to be a chef, and the only way to geta proper training is to go to France—? The longer he left it, the worse it was going to be—he realised that. He took a deep breath. ‘Tante Jeanne-Marie wrote a couple of days ago, actually…’ ‘Did she? Oh, there’s Tommy! Hello Tommy, are the others here yet?’ Never had Jonathan been less pleased to see his friend. Once again, the moment had slipped away. He would have to wait till later. The group met up and walked over the mud flats to meet the rising tide, had a mud fight and washed it all off as the water got deeper, then followed the ripples in till they reached the beach. By the time they had dried, changed and had their sandwiches, it was time to go and stake a claim to a space on the cliffs to watch the carnival. Huge crowds lined up along the pavement each side of the esplanade and up in the cliff gardens. It seemed as if the whole town had turned out to watch the parade, along with all the thousands of visitors from London. You could tell the locals because they had their ordinary clothes on, whereas the day trippers were dressed up to the nines. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ Scarlett breathed, craning her neck to see if anything was coming yet. ‘Is that a band? Can you hear music?’ A ripple of anticipation went through the waiting crowd. Below the chatter could be heard the thump-thump of drums. People stood up, children danced about. Soon the music could be made out—a cheerful march—and then the outrunners appeared, foot collectors in home-made costumes, shaking their buckets for people to throw in their pennies. The carnival had arrived. Everyone had made a special effort for coronation year. Local clubs and businesses had built floats and made costumes, bands had practised all their best numbers, the Southend carnival queen and her court looked as glamorous as film stars. Scarlett and Jonathan saved their loudest cheers for The Kursaal Flyer, a life-sized model railway engine like something out of a western, with smoke coming out of its chimney and organ music blaring from its cab. ‘Even better than it was before the war,’ the family behind Jonathan and Scarlett declared. Everyone around them agreed. Things were looking up, the war and austerity were behind them. The New Elizabethan age was starting with peace and prosperity in store. ‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ Jonathan said as they wandered homeward hand in hand through the crowds thronging the gardens. ‘Marvellous! All those costumes—I’d love to take part. Perhaps we should join one of the clubs, you know, tennis or something. It’d be fun anyway, and we’d have the chance of going in the carnival.’ ‘Yes…’ Jonathan said, guilt once more flooding through him. He’d put it out of his head while they’d been watching the procession, but now it came back with full force. He couldn’t deliberately string her along. Now was the moment. ‘Look…er…Scarlett, there’s something I have to tell you…’ She stopped short in the middle of the path so that the people behind nearly crashed into them. ‘What? What is it?’ Her eyes were wide with alarm, her face pale. Jonathan realised that, just as he was tuned to her every mood, so she had picked up his anxiety from his tone. People were walking round them, grumbling. Jonathan grabbed Scarlett’s arm and steered them off the path, scrambling up the steep slope between some trees till they got to a quieter spot. ‘Well?’ Scarlett said. It had all seemed much easier when he’d planned it in his head. Actually saying it was different. ‘I…well…I got a letter from Tante Jeanne-Marie the other day…’ ‘Yes, yes, you said.’ ‘And…well, you know how her brother’s got a restaurant—’ She was already one step ahead of him. ‘You’re going to go and work there? You’re leaving?’ She looked horrified. Worse than that, there was accusation in her eyes. How could he say he cared for her and yet do this? ‘Not there—that’s just it—’ If it had just been Uncle Michel’s restaurant, he would have put it off, just to be with her for longer. But this—this was different. ‘You see, Uncle Michel trained in Paris, at L’Ortolan d’Or. It’s really famous, one of the top places. And the head chef there, the one he worked under, came to eat at his restaurant last week and afterwards they got talking and Uncle Michel mentioned me and they have a place coming up in the autumn when someone leaves and…well…’ ‘You want to go,’ Scarlett stated, her voice flat. All the animation had fled from her face. It was as if a light had gone out. Jonathan felt terrible. ‘It’s only for a trial period to start with, but it’s such an amazing opportunity.’ He struggled to explain. ‘A top Paris restaurant. Any French boy my age who wanted to be a chef would kill to get in there. I’d be the only English boy they’ve ever taken. I mean, I don’t know what Uncle Michel said to convince them. Perhaps he made them feel sorry for me, you know, marooned here amongst all our dire English food and that—’ ‘Oh, yes, well that’s so dreadful, isn’t it?’ Scarlett flared. ‘Poor old you, having to eat English food! So you’re going to go to Paris and leave me here in your horrible pub with your horrible mother and father, are you? Well, thank you very much!’ ‘It’s not horrible! How can you say that?’ Jonathan responded, automatically coming to the defence of his home and family. ‘It is, and they are. Your mother hates me, and I hate her, the evil old bag. She looks at me like I’m dirt under her shoe, and we have to live in those poky rooms and share that disgusting bathroom. It’s all right for you—you have your nice flat at the front. Round the back it’s damp and mouldy and dark and I’m not supposed to go anywhere except down to the kitchen and then Irma’s there breathing down my neck like I’m going to break something or steal her food—I hate it! It’s like I’ve got no right to be there.’ Jonathan stared at her, appalled. He thought he knew her, but he’d had no idea she felt like this about the Trafalgar, or about his mother. ‘You’ve got no right to talk about my mother like that,’ he said stiffly, uneasily aware of how his mother talked about Scarlett. ‘I have,’ cause it’s true!’ Scarlett shouted back at him. ‘You’re getting away, aren’t you? You’re going to France, but I can’t. I’ve got to stay here, and without you it’s going to be unbearable! I hate you, Jonathan Blane! You’re so selfish! I thought you liked me, but you don’t, do you? All you care about is your beastly career, and being a chef. You don’t think about me at all!’ ‘That’s not—’ he began, but Scarlett wasn’t listening. She turned and set off down the slope, twisting and dodging between the trees. ‘Scarlett!’ he called, running after her. ‘Scarlett, wait! Come back—it’s not like that!’ But, if she heard him, she gave no sign. She reached the path, cut through the groups of people still making their way back from the carnival and plunged down the next bit of slope between thick bushes. Jonathan followed, but by the time he emerged from the bushes she had got to the esplanade pavement where the crowds were so thick that they swallowed her up. For a moment he paused on the grass, where the extra height gave him a chance to scan the milling throng of people. He caught sight of her glossy head by the side of two tall men in white shirts and raced down the last bit of the slope to force his way between the people. ‘I do care,’ he muttered, pushing and elbowing and getting cursed at. ‘I do care. I love you.’ It was hopeless. Every other man seemed to be wearing a white shirt. The cheerful ambling crowd shifted and swirled like a kaleidoscope. He was never going to find her in this. It would be best to go back to the Trafalgar. She had to go back there sooner or later, since she was supposed to be washing up at seven o’clock. Irma was getting her washing in from the yard as he walked through. ‘Ooh, had a lovers’ tiff, have we?’ she mocked. ‘Madam’s just gone by with a face like thunder.’ ‘Shut up,’ Jonathan growled, hiding the lift of relief. So Scarlett had come straight back. Now he knew where to find her. He raced upstairs and knocked on her door. ‘Scarlett? Scarlett, I’m sorry. Scarlett, are you all right?’ ‘Go away,’ came a muffled voice from inside. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. ‘Scarlett, let me in.’ ‘Go away! I don’t want to speak to you ever again!’ Desperately, he shook the handle till it rattled. ‘Scarlett, you’ve got to let me talk to you.’ The door to the neighbouring room opened and Scarlett’s father appeared. ‘Look…er…if she says she don’t want to talk to you, son, I think you’d better push off.’ ‘Mr Smith, I—’ he began, when the next door along opened and Marlene put her head out. Her face was pale and her hair was a mess. ‘Will you lot stop making such a bloody row? Some of us ain’t feeling well.’ It only needed Irma to come along and the whole story would be reported to his mother. He ignored the two grown-ups and put his head to Scarlett’s door, forcing his voice to be low and reasonable. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Scarlett. We’ll work something out.’ There was no reply. He hung about in the staff kitchen until opening time to avoid seeing his parents, then spent a miserable hour in the flat, sitting at the window and staring out unseeing across the water. What was he going to do? The dilemma went round and round in his head. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Scarlett. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave her. But—but this opportunity was just too good to miss. If he turned it down, it would never come again. The day had started so well, too. They had been so happy, larking around on the beach and watching the carnival. And now this. Scarlett was locked in her room, probably crying, and he was here feeling like a complete monster, trying to find a way through. He held his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp. This was all so confusing. He’d known roughly where his life was going and suddenly Scarlett had come along and everything had been turned upside down. If this was what they called love, then it wasn’t at all like all the songs and stuff. He still hadn’t worked it out when seven o’clock rolled round and he had to go downstairs. Both bars were heaving. Men were three deep trying to get served and every seat and practically all the standing room was taken. The air was already thick with cigarette smoke and the noise was tremendous. ‘There you are, son,’ his father boomed above the racket. ‘’Bout time too. Get your arse in gear and clear those tables.’ ‘You said seven,’ Jonathan shouted back at him, and dived through the mel?e to grab the glasses from the nearest table. His hands full, he scurried along the dank passage leading to the toilets and into the small storeroom behind the bar area that had been fitted with a sink and draining board for just such busy times as this. Scarlett was already there, drying a trayful of pint jugs. She stiffened as he came in, but didn’t turn round. ‘Scarlett,’ he began, placing the dirty glasses in the sink, ‘please try and see it my way—’ ‘Why should I?’ she retorted. ‘You don’t see it my way. You don’t care that I’m going to be left here all alone.’ ‘Of course I do. I don’t want—’ Scarlett thrust the finished tray at him. ‘You’d best take these through. I’m not allowed.’ Jonathan sighed and carted the jugs into the bar. It was frantic in the serving area. Irma and a temporary barmaid were in the lounge bar, Mr Smith and another temporary in the public bar area and his parents were moving between the two, keeping a watchful eye on the whole pub and serving more than the other four put together. ‘Seventeen and eightpence, not tuppence,’ he heard his father correct Mr Smith, as he pulled a pint for the round he was serving. His dad was good at that, adding up someone else’s round and his own at the same time and getting both of them right. Bar staff found it unnerving, but it made them concentrate harder on being accurate, even when it was as busy as this. Jonathan unloaded the jugs and dived under the flap to collect some more. The evening rolled on with no slackening of the pace. Jonathan collected glasses, emptied ashtrays and fetched supplies up from the cellar. Every time he took empties in to Scarlett he tried to reason with her, but somehow they never got further than a few sentences. Either one of the barmaids would come to fetch a clean trayful, or his mother or father would shout for him to come and do something. Once when he came through the passageway he ran into Scarlett’s father. He was leaning against the wall swigging from a flat quarter bottle of Scotch. When he saw Jonathan he hastily screwed the top on and thrust it in his pocket. ‘I bought it myself,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course,’ Jonathan replied, but a lifetime of listening to his parents discussing the shortcomings of bar staff made him wonder. Maybe Mr Smith had bought the original bottle from an off-licence. They didn’t sell them at the pub, after all. But it would be easy enough to refill it from the optics. A squirt here and a squirt there wouldn’t be missed in the volume they sold on a busy day but, if his parents did find out, there would be hell to pay. It was yet another thing to worry about. He took the latest lot of empties through to Scarlett and, as he did so, the sound of angry voices could be heard above the general level of noise in the public bar. Then there was a crash and howls of rage. ‘Fight,’ Jonathan said, standing in the doorway through to the bar and craning his neck to see. Unable to resist the drama, Scarlett came to his side, wiping her hands on her apron. Together they watched as Jonathan’s father waded in and separated the combatants. Jonathan could feel the warmth of Scarlett’s arm against his, could hear the intake of her breath. As his father threw the troublemakers out into the street, he put his arm round Scarlett’s shoulders and pulled her away from the doorway so that they couldn’t be seen from the bar. He gathered her resisting body to him and spoke into her dark hair. ‘I’m sorry, Scarlett. I don’t want to leave you, really I don’t—’ Her fists were clenched against his chest. ‘I couldn’t bear it here without you.’ He felt as if he were being physically torn apart. ‘I’ve got to do it, can’t you see? It’s my whole future. When I’m a trained chef, I shall open my own restaurant. We could run it together, you and me. It’d be terrific.’ ‘But that’s years and years away,’ Scarlett protested. Inspiration struck him. ‘You could come and join me, once you’ve left school. I could find you a job. We could both live in Paris. It’d be wonderful, Scarlett. Just think, both of us in Paris together!’ The stiffness went out of her and she looked up at him, her great dark eyes drowned in tears. ‘Do you think we could?’ ‘Of course.’ Right at that moment he could do anything—anything at all. He could conquer the world. He bent his head and did what he had been longing to do almost from that first day she’d burst into his life. He kissed her sweet lips. CHAPTER SEVEN SCARLETT loathed Jonathan’s father almost as much as she loathed his mother. He was a big, heavy-set man with a massive balding head and a belligerent manner, very different from her own gentle dad. But worse than that, there was something about the way he looked at her that she hated. It was Marlene who warned her. ‘Don’t let the Guv’nor get you in a tight place by yourself. He don’t know how to keep his hands to himself. And if the Missus catches him at it, it’ll be you what gets it in the neck. I seen it happen lots of times. Me, I make sure there’s always someone else around.’ ‘Right. Thanks,’ Scarlett said. It was yet another thing to worry about, along with her dad’s health, starting at her new school and, hanging over it all, Jonathan’s departure to Paris in the autumn. Top of the list at the moment was buying her new school uniform. ‘But you got a school uniform,’ her father said when she raised the subject one morning. ‘I’ve got one for my old school. It’s no use for the new one, it’s the wrong colour,’ Scarlett explained, handing him his cup of tea to drink in bed and locating his matches. Surely he must understand that? ‘It’s only the white shirts that are the same, and anyway the ones I had last year are too tight.’ It was a pity about the shirts. They were perfectly all right for another year, but they no longer did up over her swelling breasts. What she needed as well was a bra, but she couldn’t possibly tell him that. The yearning for her mother came over her yet again. It would have been so nice to go shopping for bras with her mum. ‘I need a skirt and a jumper and a tie and a mac and a beastly beret,’ she said, blinking back the threatening tears. ‘Oh, dear. That’s going to add up to a pretty penny, isn’t it?’ ‘But I’ve got to have them, Dad. I can’t go to school without the uniform.’ It was going to be horrible enough starting somewhere where she didn’t know anyone at all and everyone else had their own groups of friends. At her last school she had known everyone in her own year and quite a few of the older and younger girls. Victor felt in the pockets of the trousers he had hung over the bedhead. He produced some grubby notes and a handful of silver. ‘See how far that goes, love, and if it ain’t enough, I’ll see if I can get a sub off the Guv’nor.’ As he handed her the money, she caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. It wasn’t the first time. ‘You been drinking, Dad?’ He avoided her eyes. ‘No, no. I had one or two last night, that’s all. Now, off you go and see what you can buy, there’s a good girl.’ ‘You could come with me,’ she said. ‘It’s your day off today, isn’t it?’ Victor rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah…well…now…I’d like to, love, but I’m really tired, you know? Trekking round the shops, it’s hard on the feet. I was thinking of catching up with the shut-eye.’ ‘That’s all you ever do,’ Scarlett grumbled. It was always a terrible job getting him out of bed in the mornings and, when she wasn’t out all day herself, she would find him back in bed again between midday and evening opening times. What was more, he always had a Scotch or two then before closing his eyes. She sometimes had to take the bottle out of his limp hand and set it on the table. Victor gave an apologetic smile. ‘Your poor old dad’s not as young as he used to be, you know, love. This place—it’s a bit different from the dear old Lion. On the go all the time. And it’s hard taking orders after being the boss.’ ‘I suppose,’ Scarlett said. She realised that he was having to work a lot harder. Instead of having her and her mum running round doing all the donkey work, he was having to graft himself. And his hours behind the bar were quite different too. There was no leaning on the bar or sitting on a stool yarning with the regulars, it was non-stop serving. He did look tired. The film star looks that her mother had fallen for had collapsed into a lined and weary face. The carefree air had disappeared. Just looking at him made Scarlett feel anxious, but she didn’t know what to do to help him. She fell back on her mother’s fix-all remedy. ‘Would you like another cuppa?’ she offered. Victor patted her hand. ‘That’d be lovely. You’re a good girl, Scarlett. Take after your mum. You know—’ he paused and sighed, staring up at the flaking grey paint on the ceiling ‘—I just miss her so much. I don’t know what to do without her, and that’s a fact.’ ‘I know,’ Scarlett agreed. Nothing could fill the gap left by her mother, but at least she did have Jonathan. It wasn’t the same, but it was wonderful and exciting. Sometimes she felt as if she could spread her arms and fly. She had all that, and her father didn’t. No wonder he was tired. She gave up making demands on him and went to get the money she had earned from several washing-up sessions. She had been saving it to get some smart clothes for the winter and a farewell present for Jonathan, but starting school in the wrong colour was unthinkable, so that had to come first. It was as they were walking back down the High Street with carrier bags full of stiff new clothes that she realised that Jonathan was unusually quiet. ‘What’s up with you, don’t you like shopping?’ she asked. After all, it was supposed to be a women’s occupation. Other girls had been out with their mothers choosing things. ‘No, it’s not that. At least—I’m not keen usually but it’s different with you. Everything’s fun when we do it together.’ Scarlett glowed with pleasure. ‘That’s just how I feel,’ she said. They squeezed each other’s hands and smiled. But she could see that something was still troubling him. ‘Come on, spit it out,’ she said. They sat down on a bench at the top of Pier Hill. The last of the summer trippers were flooding down the pier from the steamers, everyone dressed up and cheerful despite the grey day and the threat of rain in the air. ‘Look…er…this is a bit difficult,’ Jonathan started. A sinking feeling of doom formed in Scarlett’s stomach. Last time he had spoken like this, it had been to tell her that he was going to France. ‘Go on.’ ‘Well…Mum and Dad, they have these downs on people. It doesn’t really mean anything, but…well, at the moment they seem to have their knife into your father. They keep going on about his timekeeping and stuff—’ ‘That is so unfair!’ Scarlett flared and, even as she said it, she knew that it was nothing of the kind. She was always having to remind him to go and start work. ‘I know, but…well, it’s not just that. It’s…well, there’s been quite a run on the Scotch and Mum marked the optics and someone’s been using them out of hours—’ The feeling of doom was making her quite queasy. ‘I hope they’re not saying my dad’s taking it?’ she said, fear making her aggressive. It all added up. She hated herself for even thinking it, but he had been drinking Scotch, and there was that business of the old lady’s money. ‘That’s slander, that is. My dad’s not a thief!’ ‘I’m sure he’s not. But if you could just…it’d be terrible if he was to get the sack, Scarlett. We wouldn’t be able to see half so much of each other.’ ‘I’ll tell him. So that he can be on the lookout for whoever it is. It’s probably one of the part-timers,’ she said, with far more conviction than she felt. ‘Right. Yes, I’m sure it is. I just thought you ought to know,’ Jonathan said. ‘Well maybe you ought to—’ Scarlett retorted, and stopped short. ‘Ought to what?’ Ought to know that his dad was no saint. It was on the tip of her tongue. But she had no proof. It was just a feeling. ‘Nothing.’ ‘No, go on. If you want to say something, then say it.’ There was just the same edge of aggression in his voice that she had used. She guessed it was for the same reason. He couldn’t be sure of his father either. ‘It’s nothing. Just something Marlene said, that’s all.’ ‘Marlene’s got a big mouth and a chip on her shoulder. You don’t want to listen to what she says.’ ‘Right.’ They both stared at the pier. They’d managed to keep the family loyalties and they’d managed not to row over their parents, but still it put a shadow over the rest of the day, blighting some of the very little time they now had left. The first few days of September flew by. Scarlett started at her new school and, although it wasn’t quite as bad as she had anticipated, still there was a lot to get used to. It helped that Jonathan came to meet her each day and walked home with her. The illuminations were now switched on all along the sea front. There were strings and networks of coloured lights and all sorts of fantastic set pieces that appeared to move as the bulbs flashed on and off. Fountains spurted, fish jumped and splashed, plants grew, animals trotted, all in arrangements of coloured bulbs. Along the cliff gardens, trees and shrubs glowed blue, red and orange, while the Never-Never Land was a magical place of lights and fairy tale models. The summer season extended into September as trippers came down from London in their thousands to wonder at it all, and stayed on to visit the Kursaal, eat fish and chips and drink in the sea front pubs. On busy evenings Jonathan and Scarlett were required to help out. Even Jonathan’s mother had conceded that Scarlett was quick and efficient, and employing her meant that bar staff could be where they were needed most. For her part, Scarlett enjoyed quite a lot of the job. The actual washing up was dull and tiring, but she was earning some money, Jonathan was in and out of the little room all the time and it was good to be part of a team that was keeping up with the public’s insatiable demands. Her father and the barmaids would use a trip to bring glasses out as an excuse for a quick break, and would stay for a few moments to have a joke with her or tell her what was going on in the bars. On the last Saturday in September, the Trafalgar was crowded once again and Scarlett was up to her elbows in soapy water. ‘They’re good tippers out there tonight. That’s the sixth one that’s bought me one for myself,’ Marlene said, whipping out her lipstick and powder compact and giving her make-up a quick once-over. ‘All right for some. Nobody gives the washer-upper a tip,’ Scarlett said. Marlene squinted at herself in the little mirror, patted her hair, gave a satisfied nod and snapped the compact shut. ‘All in good time, darling. You’ll be pulling it in when you’re old enough.’ ‘I’m not going to work in a pub.’ ‘Ooh, hoity-toity! You think you’re better than all this then, do you?’ ‘No. I just want to do something different.’ ‘We’ll see.’ Marlene looked over her shoulder in a theatrical fashion and lowered her voice. ‘Best have a word with your old man, dearie. The Guv’nor don’t mind the odd drink or two, but he’s had more than that. If he can’t keep up because he’s pissed, there’ll be hell to pay. All right? Don’t mind me saying, do you?’ And she made off, leaving Scarlett cursing. Jonathan came in with his hands full of empties. ‘What’s up?’ ‘Oh, just Marlene being Marlene.’ Jonathan put the glasses in the sink and gave her a hug. ‘Ignore her.’ ‘I am.’ She closed her eyes and leaned against him, savouring the moment. One of the part-timers was in next, complaining about the Missus. ‘I know, she’s a cow,’ Scarlett agreed. Then it was Irma. ‘Ain’t you got those half-pints finished yet? We’re running out.’ ‘They’re over there,’ Scarlett told her, nodding at the tray. ‘They’ve been ready ages.’ ‘Huh. Well, I should think so too,’ Irma said, refusing to be put in the wrong. Next her father nipped in and leaned against the draining board, lighting a cigarette. ‘Gawd, my back! I could do with a sit-down.’ Even through the tobacco smoke she could smell alcohol on his breath. ‘Best lay off the drink, Dad. People are noticing.’ Victor took a long drag, held it in his lungs and let it out slowly through his nose. ‘It’s a pub, sweetheart. That’s what people do in pubs. They drink. And, besides, I need it to get me through the evening. My back’s killing me and my feet aren’t much better.’ ‘But if the Guv’nor—’ ‘He won’t. Now stop nagging, pet. I got enough to worry about without you going on at me.’ ‘It’s just that Marlene said—’ ‘Marlene’s a sour little tart. Now let a man have a fag in peace, for Gawd’s sake.’ Through the open door, the Missus’s voice could be heard. ‘Vic! Get your arse back in here.’ Victor groaned and shifted his weight back onto his feet. ‘No peace for the wicked.’ Jonathan came in and out a few times more, and then Scarlett had another visitor. ‘Hello, darlin’. Workin’ hard? That’s what I like to see.’ It was the Guv’nor. Nerves crawled across Scarlett’s back. She shrank a little closer to the sink. ‘Bit more here for you to do.’ He placed a couple of pint jugs in the water, then ran his hand over her bottom, closing it about one cheek. ‘Get off!’ Scarlett spat, twisting out of his grasp. He gave a chuckle deep in his chest. ‘Now then, sweetheart. You know you like it really.’ He stepped behind her, pinning her against the draining board with the weight of his body. His hands came round to cover her breasts. ‘Very nice,’ he approved, fondling. ‘Get off!’ Scarlett shouted. ‘Get off or I’ll—’ One big hand clamped over her mouth. She could feel him hardening against her back. ‘No need to make a fuss, darlin’,’ his voice said in her ear. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we? Not when we’re just having a bit of fun.’ Scarlett jabbed backwards with her elbows, kicked at his shins. It seemed to have no effect on him. ‘Ooh, it likes to fight, does it?’ The hand on her breast squeezed tight. Scarlett’s cry of pain was stifled in her throat. ‘Let’s just keep it nice and quiet, shall we? After all, you wouldn’t want your dad to get the sack, now would you?’ Scarlett’s hand closed round the handle of a pint jug. Without thinking, she picked it up and jabbed it backwards over her head and into the Guv’nor’s face. There was a cracking noise. Everything seemed to happen at once. The Guv’nor gave a roar and slackened his hold on her, Scarlett wriggled free only to find herself grasped by the arm and slapped across the face, making her ears ring. And then the room was full of people shouting. Jonathan was there, and his mother, and her father. The Guv’nor was shouting loudest of all. There was blood running down his face from a jagged cut on his forehead. ‘The little cat! She glassed me!’ ‘He was touching me!’ Scarlett screamed. Her father got to her and put his arms round her. ‘It’s all right, baby, it’s all right—’ ‘That little tart, I knew she was trouble,’ the Missus was saying. ‘Don’t say that!’ Jonathan yelled, and rounded on his father. ‘How can you do that? How dare you?’ ‘And you can shut your trap—’ The Missus took charge of the situation. ‘You go upstairs and I’ll see to that cut,’ she said to her husband. ‘You lot can all stop gawping and get back to work and you, Vic—you can collect your cards in the morning, and I want you out by midday, you and that little madam. Is that understood?’ ‘No!’ Jonathan yelled. ‘No, you can’t do that.’ ‘I can do whatever I like,’ his mother informed him grimly. Beside her, Scarlett’s father was drawing himself up to his full height. ‘I’m not letting my daughter stay in this place a minute longer. We’re going right now.’ CHAPTER EIGHT ‘YOU can’t do that!’ the Missus stated, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, her head thrust forward. ‘You can’t stop me,’ Victor told her. For the first time since that dreadful day when her mother had died, Scarlett saw the old Dad back, the man who could make decisions rather than just be pushed along by events. There was uproar again, with Jonathan begging them not to go, the Guv’nor telling them to sling their hook, the Missus telling them that if they did they weren’t getting any wages. ‘I’m not letting my daughter stay in this place a moment longer,’ Victor said. ‘You can stick your wages where the sun don’t shine. My little girl’s safety comes first. Come on, Scarlett, we’re leaving.’ With his arm still around her, he brushed past the Missus and headed for the stairs. Behind them Scarlett could hear Jonathan arguing with his mother, and soon after his footsteps on the stairs behind them. ‘Stop—Scarlett—Mr Smith—you mustn’t do this—’ ‘Jonathan—’ Scarlett twisted out of her father’s hold and flung her arms round him as he caught up with them. They clung to each other. ‘Oh, Scarlett, I’m so sorry, so sorry—’ Still shaking with shock and anger, she sobbed on his shoulder. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’ It had all happened so quickly, it was hard to take it in. All she knew was that she and Jonathan must part. ‘I don’t want you to go. We must be able to do something.’ They stumbled up the last steps and onto the landing. Her father was already unlocking his door. ‘Mr Smith, please—you don’t have to go right this minute—’ Jonathan tried to reason. Victor opened the door and paused on the threshold. ‘I’m sorry, son. I’ve no argument with you, but we simply can’t stay, and that’s all there is to it.’ ‘If you’d just let everyone cool down—’ ‘They can cool down as much as they like. They can beg me to stay, but it won’t make any difference.’ ‘Dad, please—’ Scarlett begged. Her father looked at her, his eyes full of sorrow. ‘Scarlett, love, do you really want to stay where that man could do that to you again?’ Scarlett felt as if she were being ripped apart inside. Her body crawled with dread and loathing when she thought about what had happened, what might have happened if she had not gone on the offensive. She never wanted to see the Guv’nor or the Missus again, but neither did she want to part from Jonathan. ‘No—’ she whispered. ‘But you can’t just go—’ Jonathan cried. Her father unlocked her door. ‘Get a bag, love. You know, stuff for tonight.’ Hardly knowing what she was doing, Scarlett picked up a few random objects and put them into a shopping bag. Her legs and arms didn’t feel as if they belonged to her. It was like swimming through mud. Before she knew what was happening, she was at the back door. She could hear Jonathan’s mother yelling at him to come back at once. ‘Go on, son,’ Victor said. ‘I’m coming with you, at least until you find somewhere,’ Jonathan insisted. ‘I can’t let you just disappear.’ It was cold outside in the September evening. Once out on the dark back street, Victor’s resolve seemed to crumble a little. ‘I suppose we’d better look for a guest house,’ he said, gazing vaguely down the street as if one would instantly appear before him. ‘There’s loads just round the corner,’ Jonathan said. ‘One of them’ll have a vacancy.’ It was easier said than done. The streets of small houses leading back from the sea front were full of places advertising rooms, but nearly all had No Vacancies signs up. The landladies of the first two they tried simply took one look at the bedraggled little group on the step and shut the door in their faces. The next only had a double room. The one after told them that they only took respectable couples. ‘Flaming cheek,’ Victor growled. ‘What do they think we are?’ They finally found two rooms in a corner property that smelt strongly of damp and disinfectant. ‘Not you,’ the landlady said to Jonathan as he tried to come in too. ‘I’m not having any funny business here.’ They were all of them too weary to argue any more. ‘Come back in the morning,’ Jonathan called, before the door was shut. ‘I love you.’ The landlady snorted and showed them to two chilly rooms on different floors. ‘’Night, Scarlett, love,’ her father said, giving her a brief hug. ‘It’ll all look better in the morning, you’ll see.’ ‘Right,’ Scarlett said, but in her heart she couldn’t believe it. She sat down on the lumpy bed, feeling utterly alone. How had all this happened? How had she come to be practically begging people to give them a bed for the night? How could her mum die and leave them to this? For a long time she just sat, trying to make sense of it all. It was only when she needed to go to the bathroom that she realised she had not brought any washing things with her. Neither had she brought a nightdress. Her shopping bag contained her teddy, her hairbrush, a cardigan, the photo of her mother and Gone with the Wind. She dragged her tired body downstairs to the bathroom, used the toilet, washed her hands under the cold tap and rinsed her mouth out with water. Back in the room again, she felt the menacing quiet closing in on her, emphasized by distant sounds of revelry from the sea front. She took off her shoes and socks and dress and reluctantly got between the sheets of the bed. The events of the evening were still replaying endlessly in her head, making sleep impossible. She propped her mother’s picture up against the foot of the bed and hugged the worn old teddy to her, but somehow it failed to comfort the way it had used to when she was little. She picked up the book, the precious gift from her mother, and opened it at the marker. Yankee soldiers were invading Tara. The story wove its spell. Soon her sorrows were submerged in her namesake’s travails. She read and read until her eyes closed and Gone withthe Wind slid unheeded onto her lap. In the morning they ate the greasy breakfast provided by their landlady, packed up their things again and walked out onto the street. It was ten o’clock on a wet Sunday. Nothing was open. They had nowhere to go. ‘Jonathan said to go back to the Trafalgar,’ Scarlett said. ‘I’m not setting foot in that place,’ her father told her. ‘But our things! We can’t leave them behind!’ Besides, she was desperate to see Jonathan again. After some wrangling, Scarlett simply took charge and set off for the sea front. Her father waited at the corner while Scarlett went to the back of the pub. At the yard gate, she hesitated. The building that had always seemed grim now looked positively threatening. But the need to be with Jonathan drove her on. She walked across the gloomy yard. The back door flew open. It was him. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/patricia-burns/bye-bye-love-39774589/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.