add, ‘I’m a fast learner.’ She winked at him. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Elsie caught his astonished gaze and was aware of his sudden scrutiny. She willed herself not to look away, knowing that if she wanted to get anywhere she was going to have to brazen it out. Just then there was an icy blast as both the double doors were pulled open sharply from the outside and a crowd of men rushed in. They were a mixed bunch. Some were young, some middle-aged, one or two were positively old, but they were all jostling for the honour of being first through the door like it was the most important thing in the world.
‘Now then, gents. Easy does it. Slow down a bit, will you,’ the man at the till called out, his attention diverted from Elsie. ‘We’ve room for you all, so what the hell’s the rush?’
There were several shouts of, ‘We’re thirsty,’ which for some reason made everyone laugh.
Then someone called from within the crowd, ‘Aye, aye, landlord,’ and he raised his arm in an exaggerated mock salute.
‘He thinks he’s in the bloody army already,’ his mate shouted, elbowing his friend in the ribs, to much general laughter.
‘I’m as good as,’ the first man said.
‘That’s right. Going to be shipped off to Spain to fight in the bleeding Civil War,’ one of the old men explained proudly.
‘I suppose they can do with all the help they can get out there,’ another agreed.
‘They must be bloody desperate to want him, is all I can say,’ a young lad muttered.
‘Can anyone sign up?’ Her new ‘friend’ the bar helper was trying to pass through the mob with more dirty glasses between his fingers. The crowd fell silent for a moment when he spoke; Elsie was taken aback by how serious he looked.
‘Of course. It’s a bloody fiasco out there.’ It was the newly enlisted man who replied.
‘They say Madrid’s under siege and things are going to get worse,’ the old man who could have been his father went on.
‘Well, I’ve signed up,’ the soldier said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘and I’m off in the morning. So this will be my last drink on English soil for quite some time. Let’s make the most of it, eh lads?’ He turned to look at them all. ‘Are you ready, fellas?’
The helper put his head down now and scurried back to drop off the glasses to be washed. Elsie stood uncertainly in the centre of the sawdust-covered floor. She was completely surrounded by the excited group of men until one of them moved away to go and stand at the end of the bar. He banged his fist on the countertop that was already swilling in ale and shouted, ‘Landlord, let’s be having some pints over here,’ and a loud cheer erupted from the crowd.
Elsie still didn’t move. She was mesmerized by the scene that had so suddenly changed with the arrival of the newcomers. War, war, war seemed to be all men wanted to talk about these days. Even her father had been moaning about Hitler invading half of Europe. Only this morning he’d told her mother, ‘It won’t be long before we’re dragged into a bleeding dogfight.’
Elsie had tried to shut her ears. She avoided looking at headlines about a possible war although there were often newspapers lying around at the factory. She didn’t want to talk about it, even though some of the older girls could talk of nothing else. What if Britain did get involved in a major war in Europe? What if their sweethearts were called up for active duty? They seemed to be proud and excited, but afraid at the same time. Elsie couldn’t make sense of it. Weren’t we already supposed to have had the war to end all wars? She was thankful her only brother was far too young to be called up into any army; as she had no proper sweetheart yet she refused to think about what war would mean for her. Not that she could avoid it completely. Even their Phyllis at almost thirteen years old was earning a few coppers shouting out the headlines about the latest German invasions from the Weatherfield Gazette stand. Let’s face it, she thought. No one could be sure what was going to happen.
Elsie was far more interested in the Royal fairy tale that continued to fill the newspapers than the chances of Britain getting embroiled in another war. To her the story of the abdicated King and his stylish American wife was worth talking about any day of the week. During the summer months, she had eagerly looked for discarded newspapers with that story in the headlines. She had been captivated the day the front page of the Weatherfield Gazette had been devoted to their magical wedding in France; she had even cut a picture of the happy couple from a copy of the paper she had found several weeks after the event.
Now she took in the room full of chattering men and smiled. None of them were talking about love stories with fairy-tale endings. Men never seemed interested in things like that. They were so engrossed in their talk of war that they seemed to have forgotten all about her.
Unsure what she should do, Elsie hesistated. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene, so perhaps she might as well go home. The landlord was rushed off his feet, helping the redheaded barman to serve the new customers who were now standing two and three deep at the bar, waving their money and shouting their orders. The young man she had followed had disappeared completely, probably taking another batch of glasses to be washed in the sink.
The whole group had moved away from the entrance and Elsie noticed that the advert that had first drawn her in had fallen to the floor and been trampled underfoot. As she reached the door, she bent to pick it up. Suddenly the landlord called out, ‘Hey, you – Else or whatever your name is. Get your coat off and give Stan a hand collecting them glasses or we’ll never get this lot served tonight.’
Elsie turned in surprise. ‘You mean me?’
‘Well, I don’t see anyone else, you daft ha’porth.’
She turned and walked back.
‘I reckon the customers will welcome a fresh face, so long as I don’t hear you squawking if someone takes a fancy to pinching your bum now and then.’
A huge cheer went up among the crowd as he said that and as she made her way over to the bar she had to dodge the hands that were eagerly trying to take him at his word. But she didn’t have to be asked twice.
‘How much?’ she said as she ducked under the counter to join him behind the bar.
‘How much what?’
‘Me wages,’ she said, trying to look him straight in the eye.
‘I can’t afford to pay you no set wages,’ he said, averting his gaze. ‘But you can keep all your tips. Be nice to the customers, keep them well-oiled and don’t keep them waiting, and you can do well here, particularly on payday. I’ll give you a bonus if the takings are good. And if someone buys you a drink, you put the money in the till and save it till home time which is nine thirty most nights and later on Fridays and Saturdays. I don’t want to see you drinking on the job.’
Elsie was disappointed. She had hoped to get some kind of regular wage. She had no idea what tips might amount to at the end of the day, or how she would know whether or not the takings had been good, but she couldn’t afford to turn it down. Beggars can’t be choosers, as her mam was fond of saying, and she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity. ‘OK,’ she said, and was about to add something but he gave her no chance.
‘Right, come and help me deal with this lot,’ he said, tossing her coat like a bundle of rags over a stool behind the bar. ‘And when things quieten down you can give a hand to young Ray there, washing the glasses.’ He went away to serve a customer leaving her wondering what she should do. But very soon she was pulling pints like she had been born to it and passing the money along for Mr Tony Harehill – he pronounced it like Arial – to put in the till, which he made very clear she was not allowed to touch.
‘Me and Phil there,’ he indicated the redhead, ‘are the only ones to handle the cash,’ the landlord explained when she had taken her first order. You don’t go near that thing – get it?’ He nodded towards the cash register.
‘Got