‘Oh well. Want to give me a hand with this lot?’
‘Don’t you care? Aren’t you ashamed?’ June had been a patrol leader in the Guides which had done her no good at all.
‘I stayed the night with this really nice girl I met. She’s got a flat up in the West End and she’s asked me to share with her. I’ve only come back for a few bits and pieces. She’s got loads and loads of clothes and we’re exactly the same size.’
Jane thought happily of that wonderful rail of frocks, and Glenda’s shoes. Twenty-two pairs. She’d counted.
‘Sounds like white slavery to me,’ said June, cluelessly.
‘Don’t be schew-pid. Come on. Give me a hand.’
June slipped out into the garden while Jane fished through the heap for her cashmere sweaters and her nice tweed skirts and the summer frock with the blue poppies – although they did say next summer was going to be more gingham and polka dots. They all fitted neatly into the holdall. When she opened the overnight bag it gave off a lovely bedroomy smell of freesia-scented talcum powder (her Christmas present from June). She stuffed the big brown envelope into it then clicked it shut. She left everything else lying on the concrete. She hesitated for a moment over her precious books but she almost knew them by heart and anyway she didn’t want Suzy bloody sneering at them.
‘You can have the rest.’
June’s eyes lit up: summer frocks, cheap shoes, a navy suit from Etam. Jane hadn’t the heart to point out that none of it would fit until she lost a stone. Maybe she would now she’d got Gayelord Hauser’s Guide to Intelligent Reducing. Doreen would love all the leftovers. She gave June the phone number of the flat. They’d be gone from there by Wednesday but maybe Lorna would pass on a message. She was at the gate when Doreen appeared on the doorstep. Jane did the best Paris turn she could manage and posed on the path, feet just so, gloved hand flared out from the body, chin prettily tilted. Very Bronwen Pugh.
‘Hello, Auntie. I’m just off,’ for all the world as if her entire wardrobe wasn’t littered round the hydrangea bush.
‘Don’t you “Hello Auntie” me, you slag. Coming back here, done up like a dog’s dinner.’ She jerked her head disgustedly at Jane’s beautiful red coat. ‘ ’E buy you that lot, did ’e?’
Jane switched back to her ultra-ritzy voice to wind Doreen up nice and tight.
‘No, Auntie. My new friend Suzy lent them to me. I’m going to be sharing a flat with her from now on.’
‘A likely story. Coming home Friday gone eight o’clock smelling like a four-ale bar. “Late customer” my eye. You must think I’m daft. Well, I won’t stand for it.’
Net curtains were being twitched ecstatically on both sides of the street. You could hear the deaf old bitch opposite opening her casement window to hear better. Doreen didn’t usually like people knowing her business but it was still quite nice to have an audience once in a while. She raised her voice.
‘I’ve tried to bring you up right but I’ve got my own children to think of.’
Bang on cue Georgette began screaming. It wasn’t real crying, just the wah-wah noise she made when no one was taking any notice of her.
‘I can’t have that poor mite growing up with a slut like you for a sister – half sister. Gawd knows what your poor mother would say.’
Doreen even had the cheek to look up at this point. As if her dead sister were peering out of the front bedroom window enjoying the show like one of the neighbours.
‘My poor mother will know that I was staying with Suzy. Bye-bye, June. Ring me if you need me. Give my love to Ken and Uncle George.’ Sod Georgette.
The two bags were very heavy but Jane managed to give the neighbours a nice little show as she walked off down the avenue, head high, while Doreen was screeching after her that she wouldn’t be coming back. Bloody right she wouldn’t.
She stopped for a rest once she was safely round the corner. Carrying a heavy bag in high-heeled fashion boots was no joke.
‘Want a hand with that?’
Uncle George had abandoned the furniture-shifting and come to say goodbye properly, dashing out in his shirtsleeves with no collar on.
‘I really was staying at this girl’s flat, you know. I only said I was staying with Joy because if I said “Suzy” she’d want to know all the ins and outs. And she’s a model. Auntie hates models.’
‘Jumped-up clothes horses,’ quoted Uncle George, smiling.
‘And No Better Than They Should Be. But Suzy’s really nice and she’s asked if I want to share her flat.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Up round Oxford Street but she’s moving to a new one tomorrow. Mayfair.’
Uncle George had always lived and worked south of the river. He hardly ever went into London but he knew (or thought he knew) how much rent you’d pay where. If Jane had said Pentonville Road or Northumberland Avenue he’d have been fine but this sudden advance to Mayfair worried him.
‘Must earn a fair bit, then. For a model.’
Uncle George put his arm around her shoulder.
‘You sure you know what you’re doing? I know you want your independence but wouldn’t you be better off sharing with a few of the girls from the arcade? You only met this Suzy yesterday. Why does she want you to share with her all of a sudden? You got a rent book?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘It doesn’t sound right.’
Oh why couldn’t he shut up? He was spoiling it. Doreen carping wouldn’t matter. With Doreen it would just be envy. Jane was already young and pretty with smart clothes and an overnight case. But a nice friend? And a nice flat? Aunt Doreen didn’t have any friends – nice or otherwise.
When Doreen was young she used to go about with her younger sister. Her social life dried up very suddenly when Jane’s mother got married but it picked up again when the war started. Doreen quite enjoyed the war. She met Uncle George when she was working in the Naafi out at Ascot and for some reason he had asked her to marry him. Everyone was at it. One hundred and twenty thousand of them got divorced right after the war but not Doreen. Till death us do part, as she was bitterly fond of saying.
Doreen and her sister had grown up in Stepney (or Essex, as Doreen now preferred to call it). When Jane’s mother first got married she and her shy-looking, black and white husband had moved in with his mother in Norbury. She wasn’t an easy woman to live with but they didn’t have to stand it for very long. She died one night during the Blitz (her heart, not the Germans). They found £500 in white fivers and a photograph of her late husband’s brother sewn into her corsets.
Doreen had just got herself transferred to another job pouring tea at Croydon Airport and took the large back bedroom in the house in Norbury to give poor Gloria a hand with little Jane. Jane’s father wasn’t too thrilled but he was only on leave once in a blue moon and it was company for Gloria. When Doreen got married the following year George moved in too. The two couples jogged along together for two tetchy years before the Jameses died and Doreen moved her things into the front bedroom. By rights the house in Pamfield Avenue belonged to Jane and June but Doreen never told them that. That was the real reason why Mr and Mrs Deeks never got round to adopting their orphaned nieces. There might be questions, nosey parkers, forms to fill in. It was also why Doreen kept her distance with the neighbours who’d all have remembered old Mrs James. She didn’t want to be humped up with them anyway. Snobby lot. Washing milk bottles and polishing doorsteps. It was all just Swank.
Sixteen years since moving there she now knew all the neighbours’ names and all their business but they weren’t friends with her. Friends would have meant invited in for tea, shopping expeditions to Croydon, picnics with the children on the rec, trips to the pictures even. Doreen always said she didn’t want to be bothered with all that – not that anyone ever asked her.