Nula went into the bank where she had a small savings account, and they laughed her right out of the place – turned her down flat because, the manager said pompously, he ‘didn’t want to encourage her to overstretch herself, financially’.
Nula went home in a low mood that day. She stood inside the larder and eyed up the chocolate cake Mum had made for Sunday tea. God, she wanted it. But she stepped back out of the larder, closed the door.
‘You all right, our Nula?’ asked Mum, coming into the kitchen and making her give a guilty start.
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
Her mum patted her on the shoulder. ‘Can I get you anything, lovey?’
‘No. Thanks.’ Again Nula had to blink back tears. Her mother loved her and meant only the best for her, so it hurt Nula to have to go against her, to refuse the cupboard-love Mum so frequently offered.
There had to be a way to get what she needed. Next day at work she spoke to Sylvia, her old mate with the radar-scanner ears, the poor cow.
‘Where would I get a loan from?’ she asked.
‘What do you want that for?’ asked Freda, whose life was small, limited to this fuck-all work in Woolies, to home, to telly, to nothing very much at all. Sylvia had no ambition. She was a sweetheart, but she was thick as two planks covered in pig shit, there was no getting away from that fact.
‘Never you mind. No matter. Forget I said anything,’ said Nula.
But Sylvia didn’t forget it. She came in next day and said: ‘There’s a bloke does loans. My dad said. Here’s his address.’ She handed her mate a scrap of paper.
‘Thanks.’ Nula eyed it with suspicion before slipping it into her overall pocket. She’d try another bank, see what she could come up with. She didn’t like the idea of some bloke off the street, it didn’t seem official, or business-like.
The next bank laughed at her, too. She was a shop girl with no savings, and she was asking for a sizeable loan.
Nula slunk home again and stood inside the larder door and actually ate a large slice of the cake, before going out into the yard and sticking her fingers down her throat to bring it all back up again. Crying, choking, she sat on the cobbles beside the tin bath hanging from its nail on the wall.
Then she dragged herself to her feet, went back into the scullery and pulled her dirty overall out from the washing pile. The note from Sylvia was still in the pocket and she got it out, spread it, stared at it.
She straightened, took a breath.
All right then.
Charlie Stone.