Two Penn'orth of Sky (12 page)

‘You holds the rope in both hands . . .’

It did not take Diana long to realise that Becky was trying to teach her an art which she could not do herself, and when an older girl, clad in a filthy grey wisp of a dress, her mop of tangled curls held back from her face with a bootlace, came and snatched the rope off Becky, Diana felt almost relieved. She would not have minded had the girl merely appropriated the rope for her own use, but apparently this
was not her intention. ‘You hold one end, littl’un, while your pal holds the other,’ she instructed Becky. ‘Turn it at the same time an’ I’ll run in an’ you can watch what I does. Then we’ll swap round and you can both have a go.’

‘Thanks, Wendy,’ Becky said gratefully. ‘I’s norra very good skipper but Di wants to learn, don’t you, Di?’

Diana agreed that she did, and by the time Aunty Beryl called them in for bread and cheese and weak tea she had got the hang of it and thanked Wendy sincerely for her help. She thought she had never seen a girl as dirty as her new friend, and noticed Aunty Beryl’s eyebrows almost disappearing into her hair when she saw with whom they were playing. But she made no comment, and since Charlie entered the house hot on her heels, Diana soon forgot the whole incident.

‘I wonder how your mammy’s gettin’ on,’ Aunty Beryl said idly, as she cut slices from the long loaf and handed each child a very small square of cheese. ‘Did you have a nice game, you two? I take it, Charlie,’ she added, addressing her son as she pushed a mug towards him, ‘that you and Lenny were earning yourself a few pennies, lugging lino back home from Paddy’s Market?’

‘I can skip,’ Diana said proudly. ‘I’m better’n Becky, ain’t I, Becks?’

‘That’s grand,’ Aunty Beryl said. ‘Charlie?’

‘Lenny an’ me carried bags, mostly,’ Charlie admitted through a mouth crammed with bread and cheese. ‘We’ve got twopence each now, so that’s all right. Where’s Aunty Emmy, Mam? Only we’s off to St Martin’s rec this afternoon for a game o’ footie an’ we can’t take no kids.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on Diana,’ his mother said. ‘Aunty Emmy’s off on – on business, but she’ll be home for tea.’

Diana opened her mouth to say that her mother had gone after a job, then caught Aunty Beryl’s eye and said nothing. She saw no reason why she should not tell the assembled Fishers where her mother was, but Aunty Beryl must have had a reason for that glance. So Diana continued placidly to eat her bread and cheese and to plan how she might persuade the older woman to take her down to the rec to watch the boys’ game.

Emmy arrived at the dining rooms promptly at eleven o’clock and, after a moment’s hesitation, went inside. She was immediately glad she had taken Beryl’s advice to go when it was quiet since the enormous room was only half full of women, having coffee or tea, little cakes or biscuits, and chattering away like a cage full of birds. Emmy looked round, a trifle self-consciously, then took her place at one of the tables. A waitress approached her to ask for her order and Emmy said, in a shy whisper, that she would like a pot of tea, please, and some biscuits and that she was Emmy Wesley, who knew Freda. The girl smiled immediately, gave a brisk little nod, and went off to get her order, and Emmy thought thankfully that Beryl, as usual, had known exactly what she was doing when she had insisted that Emmy and Freda must meet. ‘Freda will see you right,’ Beryl had assured her young friend. ‘As soon as she knows you’re in the place, she’ll tell you if the boss is about, an’ if he ain’t, she’ll tell you where to wait till he is.’ She had instructed Emmy to behave as any other customer would until Freda came over and told her
what she should do. Emmy intended to follow these instructions to the letter, and just hoped that the boss was on the premises.

She had drunk two cups of tea and finished the ginger biscuits before Freda came over to the table. Emmy had met her the previous day; she was in her early forties, with a broad, placid face, neatly shingled grey-streaked hair, and a sturdy figure. Emmy had taken to her at once and now, watching her covertly, saw that she was light on her feet and quite as quick and agile as some of the girls half her age. She swooped upon Emmy’s table, saying chattily: ‘The boss is in the office, miss, if you was wantin’ a word. I telled him you were enquiring about work an’ he said to ask you to step through. I’ll show you the way.’

Emmy murmured her thanks, picked up her handbag and followed the older woman. They crossed the enormous room and Freda tapped briskly on a door which said ‘Private, No Admittance’ then flung it open. She ushered Emmy inside, gave her arm a quick and encouraging squeeze, and said: ‘Here’s Mrs Wesley, Mr McCullough. If you’ll give me a shout when you’ve finished with her . . .’ She did not complete the sentence but whisked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

For a moment, Emmy felt downright terrified, but then she remembered everything Beryl had told her. She straightened her shoulders and gave the middle-aged man behind the desk her brightest smile. She judged him to be in his forties and, possibly, to have some foreign blood in him since his hair and eyes were very dark and his skin was swarthy. He had a square face with broad cheekbones and a strongly cleft chin and she thought, apprehensively, that he
looked stern and wondered whether she was wise to want to work for him. He must have sensed her doubts, however, for he gave her a smile of extraordinary sweetness which completely changed his face.

Emmy took a deep breath and returned the smile. ‘Good morning, Mr McCullough,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you have any vacancies? I – I would like to get work since my daughter will be going back to school in a fortnight and, to be frank, I need the money.’

‘And you’ve heard on the grapevine that one of my staff’s leaving me,’ Mr McCullough said. He sighed. ‘Don’t trouble to deny it, young woman, ’cos I don’t believe in fairy tales. However, you’re presentable and you’ve got a nice big smile. Ever waited on before?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Emmy said regretfully. ‘But I’m a quick learner, Mr McCullough.’

‘Oh aye, that’s what they all say. It’s hard work, d’you know that? The money’s good but there’ll be times when your feet are killing you and your back’s aching and someone doesn’t turn up for their shift, so you’ll be asked to work double. What about that, eh? You say you’ve got a child. What’ll happen when you’re on earlies, or lates for that matter? And there’s school holidays.’

‘That’s all arranged. I live next door to my best friend and she’ll have Diana when I’m working,’ Emmy said quickly. She had known that these questions were going to come and she and Beryl had prepared for them. Mr McCullough preferred his waitresses to be what he called ‘steady’ which often meant married and with children, though he also employed very much younger girls. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I’m – I’m a widow. My husband
died in a dockside accident last month, which is why I need to find work.’

Mr McCullough nodded. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Wesley,’ he said gravely. ‘Now, as you may know, it is our usual practice to give our waitresses a trial run. Are you willing to do that? I can put you on from twelve till two with Harriet and keep an eye on you, see if you’re up to the work. How would that be?’

Once again, Emmy had been prepared for this. ‘He won’t never take on anyone without his seein’ ’em doin’ the work,’ Freda had told her the previous day. ‘It’s a job what needs someone who can smile at the grumpiest customer an’ make ’em feel . . . well, as if they care, if you know what I mean.’

But right now, Mr McCullough was still staring at her, waiting for a reply, his dark eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, very bright.

‘Yes, that will be grand, Mr McCullough,’ Emmy said. She added, with a flash of humour: ‘I’m as keen as you are to see whether I can do the work, to tell you the truth!’

Mr McCullough laughed. ‘Good for you, Mrs Wesley,’ he said approvingly. Getting quickly to his feet, he crossed the room and opened the door, then beckoned to her. ‘Come along with me.’

It was a good thing, Emmy reflected, that she had worn a dark cardigan and skirt, for she was provided with a frilly white apron, a stiff white collar and cuffs and a rather becoming little cap which she wore perched on her smooth blonde hair. She did not look exactly like the other waitresses, but she doubted that any but a very observant customer would know that she was not a member of staff. Harriet proved
to be a long, thin girl with bright ginger hair, pale blue eyes and an enchanting smile. She took Emmy round with her for the first hour, explaining in an undervoice how the ordering system worked and what one should say to customers to make them feel at ease. ‘They’ll ask you what’s on, even though there’s that bloody great chalkboard right in front of their eyes, and menu cards on every table,’ she told her helper. ‘What they mean is, “What’ll I like best?” which is a hard one, believe me. I usually say, “The roast beef is prime today and the veggies are peas an’ carrots,” or else I say, “We’re gettin’ a bit low on treacle pud, but I dare say I could squeeze out one more helpin’,” anything to make ’em feel you’ve got their interests at heart, see? An’ once you get to know ’em, you’ll remember that this feller always goes for a roast, or prefers a nice lamb chop, or can’t abide gooseberry tart, and you act according. See wharr I mean?’

When the second hour started, Harriet told Emmy to start taking orders on her own account. ‘But write each order out in full. Don’t use abbreviations until you’ve gorr’em all by heart,’ she told her. ‘If the kitchen don’t understand and send out the wrong grub, tempers get frayed.’

Emmy had already been provided with a pad and pencil attached to her waist by a long silver chain, and now she approached her first table. The four men seated there gave her only the most cursory of glances before demanding to know, in thick Lancashire accents, whether the steak and kidney pud was still on and if it came with boiled potatoes or mash.

‘Which would you prefer, sir?’ Emmy asked politely, knowing that was what Harriet would have
said. Two of the men wanted boiled potatoes and two wanted mash and they all demanded extra gravy, which Emmy only pretended to write down, since she had seen for herself that the plates of steak and kidney were all swimming in the stuff. ‘And to drink?’ Emmy asked hopefully. Harriet had told her that if a customer ordered a bottle of wine, the waitress got a percentage of the money, but these men said they would have tea – a large pot – and would not order their puddings until they had finished their main course. Emmy nodded intelligently, swept the table with a smiling glance, and hurried off to spike her order. She tore the page with the order on it off her pad and thrust it on to the long metal spike which stood by the kitchen hatch, then remembered that she had not put the table number on it, remedied the fault, and turned back into the restaurant. When the cooks had made up the order, they would shout her name and she would go into the kitchen, find the order and return to the restaurant.

Time sped by and it was well past two o’clock before Emmy realised that the room was starting to empty. She was suddenly aware of aching feet, perspiration patches beneath both arms and a mixture of tiredness and excitement, for though it had been incredibly hard work she found she had enjoyed every minute.

She had noticed Mr McCullough seated at a corner table, apparently working on some books, for she did not once see him glance up at her. By the time Harriet told her that she had done all right and should seek out Mr McCullough, he had left the table, so she tapped on the office door and went in.

He was seated behind the desk and gestured her
to a chair, saying as he did so: ‘Well? How did you find it?’

Emmy was surprised, having assumed that he would tell her how she had done, but answered readily enough. ‘I liked it, sir. The customers are ever so friendly – at least, they’re all polite – and though the work is hard and my feet do ache, people are so nice about the food and how they’ve enjoyed it . . . it’s difficult to explain, but I feel . . . well, useful I suppose.’ She stared across the desk, trying to read Mr McCullough’s expression, and found herself hoping, fervently, that he would tell her she had got the job and begin to discuss terms.

Instead, he surprised her once more. ‘Get many tips, did you?’

For answer, Emmy dug into the capacious pocket of her frilly apron and carefully laid the coins therein on the desk. Mr McCullough bent forward and counted, then leaned back and smiled at her. ‘Three and sevenpence! Well, Mrs Wesley, the job’s yours if you want it.’ Emmy opened her mouth to speak but he shushed her with a wave of the hand. ‘You’ve not heard the terms and conditions yet, so let’s get down to business. You liked waiting on, all right, and you were good at it, but I must make it clear that it won’t be your only job. The waitresses are responsible for the cleanliness of the whole dining room; that means windows and floors as well as the tables and chairs, of course. And if the place is quiet, I expect my girls to muck in with the kitchen staff, performing tasks such as peeling potatoes, cleaning cabbage, making a suet crust for a pudding . . . in short, doing anything that is needed. Again, if someone’s ill or away, you may be asked to take over their job for a few days. And then there’s the washing-up. We’ve got special
staff for that, but sometimes they need a helping hand. Well, Mrs Wesley, how do you feel about the job now?’

‘The same. I’d still love to work here,’ Emmy said frankly. ‘The only trouble is, Mr McCullough, I – I’ve never really learned to cook and I wouldn’t want to spoil good ingredients by doing it all wrong.’

Mr McCullough laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ve a reputation for excellent food so you won’t find yourself thrown into the deep end, as far as cooking is concerned. You’ll be taught how to make simple things – under an expert’s eye, of course – and before you know it, you’ll be doing all sorts. Oh, perhaps I should mention that your wages won’t vary whatever task you’re carrying out, and I expect the girls told you that your tips are your own. At Christmas, all tips go into a pool and are divided up amongst the entire staff on Christmas Eve, but that’s the only exception. And now to uniform. We provide aprons, caps, collars and cuffs, so all you will need to buy is a black dress, or a black skirt and blouse, and some flat black shoes. Can you manage that, do you think?’ Emmy assured him that she already possessed a couple of plain black dresses, and Mr McCullough nodded approvingly. ‘Good, good. I am Mr Mac to my staff – McCullough is such a mouthful – and you, of course, will be Mrs Wesley, though I dare say the staff will use your first name when you’re not in the dining room. And now we had best discuss wages . . .’