‘George?’ It was bad news, she could see. Maybe they hadn’t even broken into the top twenty never mind the top three. It had all looked so promising. Candy had sung it on Thank Your Lucky Stars. There’d been a rash of features about Candy too, all over the papers, linking her to a guitarist from Gerry and the Pacemakers. Every time she turned the radio on she heard it.
‘Sorry, Joan.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘I was going to take you out for a drink, bit of grub, but I don’t know if I’m fit company…’
She felt sick.
‘… not with you being the writer of this week’s number one top of the pops.’
Number one! She screamed and leapt to her feet. ‘You bugger, George! You rotten old pig! I thought we’d lost it. Number one. Oh, George!’
He raised his can. ‘“Walk My Way” by Candy, music and lyrics by Joan Hawes.’
She clinked her glass against his.
‘Endless success,’ he said.
‘Endless success.’
‘You, my dear, are going to make us both rich.’
She put her glass down. Hugged herself. Feeling childish but unable to contain herself.
‘So what do you reckon? Bite to eat? Bottle of bubbly?’
‘Definitely.’
He patted his pockets. ‘You any money?’
‘George!’
‘Only joking. You can pay me back.’
‘When hell freezes over.’
She wanted to run from excitement, turn cartwheels down the King’s Road and shout her news from the rooftops. But she couldn’t run in her heels and she’d never turned a cartwheel in her life. She contented herself with swinging her handbag and humming loudly as they went through the streets, her arms linked with George’s. What a strange sight they must make. George with his rumpled, shiny suit, his porkpie hat and rolling gait and she with her thick, black hair cut short like Rita Tushingham in A Taste Of Honey and latest make-up, red beret and knee-high boots. Dolly bird and sugar Daddy? If only they knew, she laughed, and swung her bag higher.
Pamela
They got the ferry at Hull. The coach drove on and then Mrs Whetton told them all to bring their coats and any valuables with them. The crossing would take three hours. Thirteen, and Pamela had never been abroad before. Everything fascinated her: the great metal structures in the boat, the excitement of setting off, watching the harbour side and all the men scurrying about with ropes. Then the launch. And the ship slowly turning, blasting its fog horn before they headed out to sea. She watched for a while. The buildings shrank and then disappeared from view and soon there was only the seagulls following in their wake and swooping down into the petrol-blue water.
‘I feel sick already,’ Eleanor told her. ‘I’m always sick.’
Pamela grimaced. ‘I hope I’m not.’
‘Let’s go in.’ Eleanor led the way to the lounge. ‘It’s best to sit in the middle, where it doesn't tip so much.’ She flopped into a spare seat. Pamela looked around. The place was almost full and there was a mugginess to the atmosphere which she didn’t like. She didn’t want to spend the whole journey sat in here, she’d feel better in the fresh air.
‘Eleanor, I think I’d rather be outside.’
‘It’s cold though. I think I need to be near the toilet.’
Pamela felt the ship roll to the side and saw Eleanor’s face slacken. She looked grey.
‘Pam, can you get a me a pill from the Purser?’
‘The what?’
‘There’s a place, through the doors there, near the bureau de change. The Purser’s office, they have the tablets.’
‘Fine. Hang on.’
She queued up, feeling responsible, and got a tablet for her friend. When the boat pitched more strongly she felt slightly queasy but it made her feel hungry rather than sick.
Eleanor had disappeared when she returned to the lounge but she came back soon after, looking deathly.
She didn’t want anything else. She swallowed the pill then lay across two seats. ‘I’m going to try and sleep,’ she said. She curled up and closed her eyes.
‘I’ll be back later,’ Pamela said.
She made her way to the cafe and queued up for a sandwich and a lemonade. She was horrified at the prices but she really had to eat something.
A family came in with two boys. The tallest glanced over at her a few times. She pretended not to notice but he was very good-looking. Thank God they hadn’t been made to wear their uniforms for the journey. They were to save them for the performances. Just think, half of them would have been covered in sick. Not a nice picture for the Manchester Girls’ Choir.
The family sat at a nearby table, the boy facing Pamela. She ate her sandwich slowly, aware of his eyes and enjoying the attention. She didn't move when she had finished but waited, fiddling with the packets of sugar on the table.
When the family got ready to move, Pamela got up and went to the top deck, where a few people lingered, some with binoculars, looking for seals or birds, she supposed.
She had almost given up hope when she saw him coming up the steps. The metal clanging as he climbed.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘A strong wind.’
‘Yes.’ She caught at her hair and held the unruly clump round her neck so she could see him.
‘Are you German?’
He nodded. ‘Erik.’ He smiled. ‘And you?’
What an awful name, she thought, for such a dishy boy. ‘Pamela. I’m going to Berlin to sing at the choral festival.’
‘You sing?’ Amusement in his eyes. Did he think that was funny? Light eyes, almost yellow. It made her think of a cat, a lion or something. Yellow eyes, golden hair.
‘What about you?’
‘I never sing.’ He crossed his eyes at her. Like Clarence, the cross-eyed lion on telly.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Where’ve you been? Or going?’
‘Ah! Family visit. My uncle lives in London. He was getting married.’
She nodded. Some hair escaped and slapped against her face.
‘Shall we find some shelter?’
‘Where?’
He winked. ‘Follow me.’
There was a small recess on the deck below, a sunken rectangle big enough for the two of them, that offered some protection from the worst of the wind. Erik was easy to talk to. He was sixteen and told her he was going to be an engineer.
‘My father was an engineer.’
‘Yes? What sort of engineering?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember much about his work. He died when I was seven.’
‘That’s bad.’
She shrugged.
‘What will you be? A singer?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to make lots of money and travel all over the world.’
‘Where will you go first?’
‘America – no, Australia. Somewhere really different.’
‘America is good.’
‘Have you been? Whereabouts?’
He talked and she listened. She was aware of her shoulder and hip touching his. She watched his hands as he talked. He wore an identity bracelet with his name on, a heavy gold chain. His skin was the colour of honey and there were fine hairs on the back of his hands. She could feel the vibration of the ship’s engines in her tummy and excitement too at being here with him.
‘Pamela, can I kiss you?’ He said suddenly.
She turned to face him, looking at his eyes, which were serious now, the tawny colour ringed with black. His lips, fuller than hers, the shadow of darker hairs along his top lip.
‘Yes.’ She raised her face and he bent to meet her. His lips were cool and dry. She wondered for a moment whether she was doing it properly but then she let the sensation take over, eyes closed, feeling dizzy. She felt his hands on her. One at the nape of her neck, wreathed with her hair, the other stroking her back. It felt so good. She couldn’t wait to tell Eleanor. This was going to be just the best week of her life.
Lilian
Six years she’d been working. She started eight months after Peter’s death and couldn’t imagine her life without the job now. The first few weeks had been hell. She’d go to bed with her stomach clenched and nauseous at the prospect of the coming day. But she had stuck it out, she had to. It was the only job she could find that was near home and where she could do part-time and be able to pick Pamela up from school. Plus she didn’t need any qualifications. And it had to get better, or maybe she had to get used to it. There were only two other women in the main sorting room and they seemed to be completely at home among the blue language and the practical jokes and the endless banter. She knew within a week that she had acquired a nickname: the moody widow. She tried not to be standoffish but some of the antics she found genuinely shocking and it was hard to pretend otherwise.