Читать книгу Follow Your Dream - Patricia Burns - Страница 13

‘BUT I don’t want to work in a shop!’ Lillian protested.

Easter was fast approaching, and with it her last weeks at school. Now she was fifteen, she could leave and get a job. Staying on till the end of the school year was out of the question. Gran was annoyed enough that she had to stay on till the end of term. She was even more annoyed that Lillian should question her choice of a job.

‘Don’t want has got nothing to do with it, young lady. You’ll do as you’re told.’

‘But I want—’ Lillian hesitated. She wanted so much to be a dancer. The thrill of those precious few minutes on stage at the bandstand had confirmed everything she had always imagined. Hidden in an old chocolate box at the bottom of her underwear drawer was the newspaper picture of her receiving her prize from the carnival queen. She got it out and looked at it whenever she was feeling low, and it always gave her a boost. But it was no use even trying to explain this to Gran. In fact, it was important that she kept quiet about it. What Gran didn’t know about, she couldn’t forbid.

‘I want to be a hairdresser,’ she said, surprising herself. Her Aunty Eileen had been a hairdresser.

‘That means a long apprenticeship with you earning next to nothing.’

‘Well, if money’s the thing, I’ll work in a factory. I’d earn more in a factory than at a shop.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Our family has always worked in shops. We had a shop once, after all. We’d still have it now, if there was any fairness in this world.’

Lillian knew she was defeated once Gran referred to the shop.

‘Yes, Gran.’

‘Your sister says there’s an opening at Dixon’s, in the household department. You’ll go and apply for it tomorrow.’

The last thing Lillian wanted was to be working at the same place as Wendy. After the way she had behaved towards James, Lillian could hardly bear to look at her. She muttered something that sounded like agreement, but in her heart she was refusing. She marched straight out of the house, fuming. Why wasn’t her life her own? Why couldn’t she do what she wanted? She walked to the High Street and went along looking at the shop windows. Halfway up, one of the shoe shops had a notice in the window—Junior wanted. Lillian went in and asked to see the manager. A tall man with thinning hair was fetched. He looked at her over his half-moon glasses.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve come for the job. In the window,’ Lillian said.

As the words came out of her mouth, she could hear that they sounded stupid. She should have planned this better.

‘My name’s Lillian Parker. I’m leaving school at the end of this term,’ she explained.

‘I see. Right. And what makes you think you are suitable to work here?’

‘I…I’m very interested in shoes,’ Lillian improvised. ‘And I’m used to looking after people. My family has a guest house and so I’m dealing with the public quite a lot and I know how to be polite and find what people want.’

That sounded much better. She was surprised at herself. She gave a tentative smile. The manager did not respond.

‘I take it you can make tea?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lillian said. What had that to do with selling shoes?

‘And can you handle money? Eighteen and elevenpence ha’penny, what’s the change from a five pound note?’

‘Four pounds, one and a ha’penny,’ Lillian said promptly. That was easy. She had been doing shopping since she was five years old.

The manager nodded. He went and took a red stiletto from one of the displays and handed it to her.

‘Go into the store room and find the other half of this pair,’ he said.

Lillian went through the door at the back of the shop. It was dark and cold out here and the floor was bare, unlike the cosy carpeted brightness of the shop. She found the light switch and gazed at the shelves and shelves of shoeboxes, stacked right up to the ceiling. Where to start? She scanned the rows, looking at the pictures on the ends of the boxes. The nearest ones were all men’s shoes. She found the ladies’ section, dismissed the flat styles, scanned the stilettos. There—at the top! She grabbed a stepladder that was standing nearby, climbed up, checked the size, pulled out a box. Inside was just one shoe, the partner of the one she was holding. She scampered into the shop.

‘There!’ she said, triumphant.

The manager looked vaguely surprised. ‘That was very quick.’ He offered her a trial of a month.

It wasn’t a very exciting job, as it turned out. On her first morning, the manager set her to dusting the shelves.

‘Have you finished that?’ He ran a finger over the surfaces. ‘Yes, well, that’s all right. You can go and put the kettle on now and start making tea for the mid-morning break.’

After that, she was set to sorting out the stand containing the shoelaces. By the end of the day, she had hardly touched a shoe. She certainly hadn’t spoken to a customer. That set the pattern. As the junior, she was mostly cleaning and tidying, fetching things for the other staff and running errands for the manager. But it was her job and she made the best of it. It was nice to put on her own clothes in the morning instead of hand-me-down school uniform, and to be called ‘Miss Parker’ in front of the customers. It was lovely to get her little brown paper envelope of money at the end of the week, even if most of it did have to go to her mother for her keep. She was a grown-up now, taking her own place in the world.

A small corner of her heart hoped that this might help her when it came to seeing James again. Mostly she felt totally humiliated when she thought of their last meeting. However much she told herself that it had all been Wendy’s fault, she knew she had behaved badly. Of course he was going to treat her like a child if she shouted at him then blubbed all over him like that. What had made her do that? She couldn’t understand what had happened to her. Being with him seemed to bring on a sort of madness, making her lose all self-control. Every time she thought of it, she wanted to curl up and die. But then there had been that wonderful, wonderful moment when he’d taken her in his arms. She relived that a thousand times, making it end differently in her imagination. Maybe, just maybe, when they next met he would see this young woman who worked for her own living and not just a scruffy kid. The thought kept her going until the next blow fell.

‘James had some worrying news in his last letter,’ Susan announced one evening. Now that she and Bob were engaged and saving up for a house, they spent a lot of evenings at each other’s homes rather than going out to the pictures or dancing. This particular evening, Lillian was sitting at the table in the kitchen reading a library book while Bob studied for his banking exams and Susan knitted him a jumper. Bob merely grunted at her statement, but Lillian was instantly alert.

‘Did he? What was it?’

‘Well, he’s been made a corporal, which is good, of course, but he’s got a posting abroad.’

A terrible chill struck Lillian, like an icy hand clutching at her entrails.

‘Posting?’ she managed to say.

‘Yes, he’s being sent to Cyprus. Poor Mum’s beside herself. It’s so dangerous out there with all those dreadful EOKA people letting off bombs and things. James is playing it down, of course, so as not to worry Mum. He says in Cyprus there are oranges and lemons growing on trees, which must look so pretty.’

‘When they say you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,’ Bob commented, without taking his eyes off the page he was looking at.

‘Well, yes, I know,’ Susan agreed, ever the good fiancée. ‘But poor Mum! It’s brought it all back to her, you see, having James go off to a war zone. She can’t help thinking about Dad.’

‘It’ll all blow over soon enough,’ Bob said. He had never been further than Catterick on his national service.

‘W-when’s he leaving?’ Lillian managed to ask.

‘Next month. He’ll be there till he’s finished his time.’

A whole year! James was going to be away for a whole year! And to Cyprus, where guerrilla fighters were attacking British troops. It wasn’t just a jaunt abroad, like being sent to Germany. He could be involved in real fighting. How was she going to bear it? She couldn’t even spill it all to Janette the next morning like she used to when they were at school together, but had to wait all through a miserable day till she could cycle round to Janette’s after tea.

‘My life is finished!’ she announced as she burst through the door to Janette’s flat. ‘There’s nothing left to live for.’

‘Oh, so you won’t want to see this, then,’ Janette said, waving a blurry carbon copied piece of paper in front of her.

‘James is going to Cyprus. He’s going to be away for—what’s that thing?’

Despite herself, her eyes had lighted on the word Dancers on Janette’s paper.

‘Sure you want to see?’ Janette teased, backing away from her with the paper held above her head.

‘Yes—come on—what is it?’

‘No more flipping James?’

‘OK, OK.’

Eagerly, Lillian read the notice. Do you like dancing? it asked. Are you fifteen or over? Come and audition for the Mamie Hill Dancers and help with our charity work dancing for Old Folks etc.

Her excitement dimmed a little at the words charity work. This was not a professional troupe, then. But it was a start. It was dancing, up on a stage, in front of an audience. She made a note of the time and place of the audition and spent the rest of the evening discussing it with Janette. James wasn’t forgotten, but she did have something to look forward to once more.

Mamie Hill turned out to be a tall lady with a cigarette in a long holder and rather too much make-up, who could have been any age from forty to sixty. She made an exotic figure in her bright dress and flowing scarves in the middle of a dusty church hall. What impressed Lillian was the fact that she had been a professional dancer—it showed in every movement she made.

After a word or two about the troupe, she got each of the dozen or so girls who had arrived to dance on the stage, accompanied on the out-of-tune piano by a woman who chainsmoked through the whole proceedings. Lillian did her We’re a Couple of Swells routine, enjoying the thrill of it all over again. As she dropped into the final splits on the rough boarding of the stage, she felt a splinter ram into her thigh, but managed to keep the bright smile on her face. She got up and looked at Miss Hill. Had she liked it? So much was riding on this. This was more than just one contest, this was the chance to learn and perform.

Mamie Hill opened her notebook, her gold propelling pencil poised. ‘What did you say your name was, dear?’

‘Lindy-Lou Parker.’

‘And have you been dancing for long?’

‘Oh—ages,’ Lillian said.

‘Mm—well—I won’t ask who taught you, but you’ve got a lot of rough corners to knock off. A lot. But you’ve got oodles of raw talent, and you can perform. That’s the thing, dear—performing. You have to give out to the audience, you have to give all of yourself, and you do that. Now, are you prepared to come to two practices a week and be available whenever we’re asked to perform?’

Was she? There was only one answer to that.

‘Oh, yes, Miss Hill! I’d love to.’

‘Very well, then. Be here at seven o’clock on Thursday.’

Lillian cycled home six inches above the ground. This was it! This was her start. Her feet were on the yellow brick road.

The only problem, and it was a huge one, was deciding what to say to the family. After the fuss about the talent contest, she feared that if she admitted to what she was doing it would be forbidden. Round and round her head went Aunty Eileen’s last words to her—Don’t let them stop you. Maybe the best way was simply not to tell them. But if she went ahead and did it, lying in the process, then there would be even bigger ructions when she was finally found out. She couldn’t bear the idea of being stopped before she had started, so she opted for secrecy and said she was going to see friends when she went to practices. Maybe something would turn up to change Gran’s mind. It was a long shot but she went for it, closing her eyes to the consequences.

Mamie Hill was a tough teacher. She treated the girls as if they were a proper dance troupe, picking up sloppy steps and lazy arms and making them all work really hard, going over each movement until it was right.

‘Practice, practice, practice!’ she insisted, gesticulating with her cigarette holder.

Some of the girls groaned and complained as they did a sequence for the tenth time. Two got so fed up that they left. But Lillian loved it. This was what she wanted. She could feel her body responding to the discipline. She welcomed the criticism and did everything that Miss Hill suggested. She got up early each day to do ballet exercises, using the chest of drawers as a barre and ignoring Wendy’s complaints at being disturbed. She went over the dance routines in her head as she cycled to work and practised steps in the store room of the shop as she searched for shoes.

The troupe got their first booking, a request to entertain the Darby and Joan Club at their birthday party. Lillian was thrilled. Then Miss Hill started to talk about costumes. Lillian listened, appalled, as ideas for three different outfits were described. How on earth was she going to make these? Like all girls, she had learnt some basic needlework at school, but a sailor suit? A frilly satin dress? How was she going to make those? And the cost! It was going to take all the money she had left from her earnings after giving her keep to her mother.

‘Now, I’m sure your mothers will be able to help you with this,’ Miss Hill was saying. ‘All mums are clever with their needles, and they love a pretty project to do. It makes a nice change from turning sheets sides to middle and mending trousers.’

Quite apart from the fact that she had not yet told the family about the Mamie Hill Dancers, Lillian could just imagine her mother’s reaction if she asked for help. That weary, washed-out look would come over her face.

Oh—I don’t know—really I don’t—your grandmother wants me to—

There was always something that Gran wanted doing. And the summer season was looming.

It was no use asking Wendy. She hated sewing and, anyway, she never helped anyone if she could get out of it. If only her aunty Eileen were still here, she would be delighted to try. Turning it over in her mind, Lillian realised that they did have someone in the family who could sew. Susan. Asking her would mean having to admit to what she was doing, and then of course Susan would tell Bob and then the whole family would know. But Susan, on James’s request, had come in on her side when she’d gone in for the talent contest, so maybe she would support her this time.

The next time Susan came round to their house, she waited till Bob was out of the room and broached the subject.

‘Oh, that sounds interesting, dear. A stage costume! I haven’t made a stage costume before. Let me see the pattern.’

Lillian showed her the sketches and the newspaper patterns that had been copied from the expensive tissue ones. Susan nodded and commented on the technicalities involved. Just as Mamie Hill had predicted, the project interested her. It was something a bit different from ordinary dressmaking. By the time Bob came back into the room, she was getting enthusiastic.