Elsie stared at the newsagent’s window, finding it difficult to believe it would soon be Christmas again. It was cold and damp as there had been lots of rain, though there had been no sign of any snow yet. Elsie usually liked Christmas time. Regardless of the miserable conditions outside, people on the whole seemed more jolly and friendly at that time of year. But this year was different. People were scurrying about with anxious looks on their faces, for no one was sure whether or not there was going to be a war. Only a couple of months ago the prime minister had come back from a meeting with Mr Hitler and had talked about ‘peace in our time’. Elsie had been relieved to hear he had signed a special agreement so there couldn’t possibly be a war now.
‘They’ve found a way to settle things,’ she’d assured her little sisters. ‘So there’s no need to worry. We already had the war to end all wars before you and I were born.’
But then the other week, when she and Fay had sneaked into the cinema, she’d seen the Pathé News showing trains filled with children leaving Germany for England. They were waving goodbye to their parents. Everyone was crying and jostling as soldiers with rifles were herding little ones with tiny suitcases and badges with their names on their coats on to the trains. The newsman said they were escaping the war that was waging in Europe. Was that true? And if so, was it really coming to Britain? Some said that even if things were all right now, by Christmas next year it could be very different, with England being overrun with Germans. Elsie no longer knew what to believe.
She turned her attention back to the window. In the corner, as always, stood the Christmas tree. But it was looking tired and old now. Its branches were no longer green, and the fairy with the wand that used to look like she was flying from the topmost branch had disappeared. Some tinsel still hung across the branches but it didn’t seem to glitter any more and the cotton-wool puffs of pretend snow were grey instead of white. None of the other decorations had changed much from last year and all the years before. There were washed-out paper chains and what seemed to be the same boxes of chocolates in their faded wrappings. She dreaded to think what the chocolate inside would be like by now. That made her think of her own precious bar of chocolate that Stan had given her for her birthday and an unexpected tear ran down her cheek. She left it unchecked as she closed her eyes. She could see Stan as he was walking by the Field. Stopping to chat. Her first boyfriend. The first person apart from Fay and little Jack who had shown her any real affection. He had been her first love and it was hard to accept he had been gone for three months already.
She opened her eyes and stepped closer to the glass, trying to see her reflection. She still looked the same as she had last year when she stopped to admire the Christmas tree. Her pale and sickly face hadn’t changed much in the last twelve months. She never had been able to get hold of any make-up after that dreadful business at Woolies, and she had no beetroot juice so there was no way to brighten up her lips. She sighed. The only thing that had changed was that Fay had hacked at her hair recently when they came across an old pair of scissors in the Field. But the blades had been almost blunt and Fay had not been able to do much with her fringe. It was still uneven and the flyaway bits that reached down to her shoulders were all different lengths too.
She was so engrossed in looking at the window, wishing she could change her image, she didn’t hear the footsteps. It gave her a fright when a voice interrupted her thoughts.
‘What are you gawping at in there, eh?’ It was a man’s voice, deep and strong. ‘I could show you far better Christmas trees than that,’ he said.
Elsie whipped round. A huge man was standing there, looking even taller because of his hat. His open overcoat showed he was dressed in a suit, and it wasn’t even Sunday. Her mouth gaped open but she didn’t feel able to speak. Not that it mattered, for he was talking again.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ he said, ‘and we have real tears too. Now what are those all about? Crying because Santa didn’t come?’
Elsie felt anger flare; how dare he make fun of her! ‘No, I’m not,’ she snapped. ‘There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. I’m not a child.’ She paused then and added under her breath, ‘Not that he’d know where I bloody live anyway.’
The man held his large hands up in surrender like John Wayne did in her favourite cowboy films. In fact, she thought he looked a bit like John Wayne. Very tall, with broad shoulders, big feet and hands. But this man’s fingers were scrubbed clean with no dirt under the nails. His face was darker than the film star, like he needed a good shave, and thick dark hair curled out from under his trilby. She couldn’t see his eyes until he bent down to look at her face, but then she saw that they were dark as well.
‘Oops, sorry,’ he said. His eyes had laughter in them. ‘Only joking. Maybe it’s just the rain. Anyway, you look half-frozen. How do you fancy a hot cup of coffee?’
Elsie screwed up her nose, she’d never had coffee.
‘OK, tea then,’ he said. ‘There’s a café down the road.’
‘Do you mean the Milk Bar?’ Elsie asked.
He nodded.
‘Aye, I know it. Though I’ve never been inside.’
‘Well, now’s your chance. What do you say? Warm us both up?’
Elsie felt a rush of excitement. She wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity of going to a café, even if it was with a complete stranger. The offer of a hot drink and a warm place to sit down with an attractive man, without one of the kids mithering at her skirt, was very tempting indeed. It was obvious he was quite a bit older than her, and no doubt a hell of a lot more worldly wise, but it was only a cup of tea. Besides, she was going to be sixteen next birthday. Old enough to look after herself.
Despite the large window overlooking the street, it was impossible to see into the Milk Bar from outside because the glass was all steamed up. As she walked in, Elsie was hit by the smell of strong coffee and sweet sticky buns. It seemed to hang on the blast of warm air that greeted them. There were people sitting at almost all the tables and there was a steady low buzz of noise. A young girl in a white apron was ferrying drinks and cakes to the tables and clearing up the dirty cups and saucers as she went.
‘Morning, Arnold,’ a tired-looking woman behind the counter greeted him as soon as he walked in. ‘The usual? Cup of tea, is it?’
‘Morning, Lizzie. Make that two, if you please.’ He took his trilby hat off and tossed it on to the hat stand in the corner.
‘Right y’are,’ she said. ‘Coming up.’ Elsie was aware the woman was eyeing her up and down. Her cheeks suddenly felt warm and she hoped she wasn’t blushing.
Arnold walked over to an empty table by the window and pulling out a chair sat down. Elsie sat down too, though the solid wooden chair was heavier to move than it looked. She gazed round the small room. It was the first time she had been inside any café, not just this one, and it all seemed very different from the pubs she was used to. The tables were smaller, the chairs bigger. There was no sign of sawdust on the floor but the large diamond-patterned tiles made it look bright and stylish at the same time. The walls had originally been painted yellow over wallpaper but where the steam had made contact the paper was now peeling away and there were stains and marks on the ceiling which looked like something had carelessly been tossed up there and never come down.
As people came in, they gave their orders to the woman behind the counter and she speared a copy on to a hook as they paid their bill. Then a little while later the extremely young-looking little waitress served the orders on a tray.
But it was all the equipment that fascinated Elsie, even though she was no stranger to machinery, working in the factory. But she had never seen apparatus like the array of gleaming metal lined up behind the counter. One machine was making a series of gurgling noises before some extremely dark coffee began to drip into a cup. Another was whipping up a head of steam that sounded like the engine on a train she’d once seen at Exchange Station.
‘Are you going to tell me who you are, and do you make a habit of picking up stray girls and buying them a cup of tea?’ she demanded as soon as he sat down. ‘And ta very much, by the way.’
‘Arnold Tanner,’ the rather gruff voice told her. ‘And who are you?’
‘I’m Elsie Grimshaw.’ She didn’t know why, but she put out her hand. He looked slightly surprised but he wiped his hand on his trouser leg before taking hold of it and shaking it.
‘And where do you live, Elsie Grimshaw, that Santa and his reindeer didn’t bother stopping on his way past?’ The teasing note was back in his voice and she grimaced as he mentioned Santa again. But this time she held on to her temper.
‘Back Gas Street,’ she said, with equal emphasis on each word, and she looked him directly in the face as if offering a challenge.
If she was hoping for a reaction she was disappointed, for he didn’t flicker so much as an eyelid. All he said was, ‘Do you now?’ as if that explained everything.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked, and sat back folding her arms across her chest.
‘Good question,’ he said.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the waitress and a tray loaded with two thick-lipped cups of steaming brew.
‘Two teas with milk and extra sugar,’ she said, slapping them down so hard that the strong brown liquid spilled over into the saucer. She also brought a large bun on a plate with a thick layer of a shiny white something smeared on the top. She put that down in front of Arnold. Elsie could hear her stomach growling but he didn’t seem to notice. He bit into the bun and didn’t offer her any.
‘Why’s that then? What’s so good about it?’ Elsie persisted.
He laughed. ‘Because officially I’m not really living anywhere at the moment. I’m kipping down at my friend Joe’s. But I’ll soon be on the move.’
Elsie sipped her tea even though it was still scalding hot and wondered if she dare ask for a bite of the sticky-looking cake. She hadn’t realized she was so hungry. He looked at her without smiling as he took another bite and put the remaining piece back on his plate.
‘I collect rents for one of the landlords and he’s about to fit me up in a new place all on my own.’
Elsie was amazed. What kind of a place would that be, she wanted to know. And where had he been living before he moved in with Joe? But she bit back the questions; it sounded too forward to ask so much at once. Instead she said, ‘So where’s your new place going to be then?’
‘In Coronation Street,’ he said.
‘Blimey, that’s posh,’ she couldn’t stop herself exclaiming. ‘Anywhere near the viaduct? I learned to cycle there.’
He nodded. ‘Not far.’
‘How d’you manage to get a place there?’ she blurted out.
He laughed. ‘Well, I suppose it is posh, compared to Back Gas Street.’
She was aware of his eyes studying her face and was determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. ‘Young man like me needs ’is own place, see. Only losers and mummy’s boys still live at ’ome.’
He leaned forward then, his eyes narrowing as he said, ‘And in answer to your other question, I deserve it because I work bloody hard.’
So do I, she wanted to retort, but nobody gives me owt like that. She thought it best not to say a word though.
He sat back, resting his chunky arms on the curved wings of the chair and Elsie looked down at the table. It was freshly scrubbed wood, stained with heat rings from cups and glasses that obviously couldn’t be rubbed off.
‘I bet you’re not even old enough to work,’ he said.
Once again, anger nearly got the better of Elsie, but when she looked at him a slight smile was twitching at his lips. So she told him about the factory and that she had once worked in a bar as well.
‘How old are you?’ he asked. ‘Working in a bar and all.’
‘I’m eighteen,’ she said and smiled, but disbelief was written across his face.
‘Get out of it! You must think I was born yesterday – you’re just a kid,’ he said, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in a frown.
‘Well, you’re hardly much older than me, acting flash, bragging about getting your own place.’ Elsie hated being called a kid; she’d seen more life in her almost-sixteen years than most people did in their entire lives.
At that his hand shot out and he grasped hold of her arm, his fleshy fingers holding it in a vice-like clamp. Elsie had to stop herself from crying out.
‘Don’t you come that lip with me, lady,’ he snarled. His eyes flashed, his grip was strong and painful and for a brief moment Elsie felt afraid. The switch from fun to anger had been so sudden.
Bloody hell, she thought, there’s just no getting away from the bullies in this world. But he was different to her dad, she could tell. There was a confidence about him, and you could see he wanted to go places, unlike her lazy parents.
As quickly as he’d grabbed it, he let go of her arm and patted her hand lightly as he laid it down on the table. She was as much amazed at the gentleness of his touch as she had been by his anger. At the same time she was aware of butterflies in the pit of her stomach and a warm glow filtering through her body. There was something mild yet wild about this man that sent thoughts of Douglas Fairbanks and Clark Gable flashing through her mind. She hadn’t felt so excited in months.
But the excitement didn’t last. She was disappointed when they were ready to leave the café and he didn’t suggest another time for them to meet. After he had collected his hat from the stand and seen her out of the door and safely across the road, he walked away in the opposite direction without so much as a word or a backward glance. Elsie had seen enough films to know that lovers never parted like that. They wandered off hand in hand into the mist, stopping every now and then to kiss. What would it be like to hold Arnold’s hand, she wondered, his huge fingers closing entirely around hers? Would she ever be able to reach up close enough to test out the warmth of his lips and tongue that had looked so inviting as they had talked? One thing was for sure: if she was ever to see him again, she would have to raid the Sally Army shop for some high-heeled shoes.
As she wandered slowly home, Elsie pondered on how much she had enjoyed being treated like a lady, if only for a few brief moments. It had felt wonderful to have someone actually buy her something. It didn’t matter it was only a cup of tea. Arnold had bought it especially for her, the same way Stan had once bought her a bar of chocolate. Both times, it had made her feel very special indeed. She sighed. Perhaps now was the time to put Stan into the background and to stop living in the past. There had been a time when she’d looked to him to help lift her out of Back Gas Street, but that dream was well and truly over now. It was time to stop looking back.
Elsie stopped dead in her tracks as a new thought struck her. She patted her hair and pouted her lips as if she were in front of a mirror, making herself laugh. She had always been determined to have a boyfriend by her sixteenth birthday and time was running out as she would be reaching that grand old age next March. Not for her the kind of boyfriend who was only interested in a quick grope in the bushes – she was already too worldly-wise for that. No, she wanted someone more serious, someone who acted like a grown-up.
What with Stan’s death and people gloomily predicting that the world would soon be coming to an end if Hitler had his way, Elsie was more determined than ever to make the most of whatever time she had left. She didn’t want to die having never known anything but the squalor of Back Gas Street and the drudgery of the factory. She wanted to die happy. And what would make her the happiest would be to find someone who would take her away from Back Gas Street.
Arnold, it seemed to her, fitted the bill perfectly. He looked to be the sort of man who could help her to thumb her nose at her father – and her mother, for that matter. If she threw in her lot with him, she’d leave them and the slums behind. She clapped her hands and chuckled out loud at the prospect, then looked round to make sure no one had heard her. But there was no one else on the street right now, so she did a little skip and a jump. She knew exactly what she must do. If Arnold Tanner collected the rent from properties around Coronation Street, then she knew where she had to go to make sure she would ‘accidentally’ bump into him.
As she rounded the familiar corner of Back Gas Street, she started to count down in her mind the number of times she would have to see the front door of number 18 again.