The Measure of Her

Angela pulled her mother’s shopping list from the pocket in her home- made summer dress.  A reel of Sylko in Buckingham Lilac was at the top of the list. The stitching was coming loose at the hem of her dress and this would be used to make the required repairs. Next was a reel of Peacock Blue for mending the tear in her gymslip, then a box of Dorcas pins to replace all those that invariably disappeared.  Finally, a new tape measure was required.  One with inches on both sides.  This last instruction was underlined twice.

“All of our tape measures are metric on one side and imperial on the other” the tiny haberdashery junior whispered to her. “It’s how they’re made now.”

“Haven’t you got any imperial only ones left over somewhere in the back?” Angela almost pleaded.

“I haven’t seen any at all recently.”

An older assistant appeared from behind a curtain and began a brisk tidy of the fabrics.  Her glasses, which she wore on a chain around her neck, bounced on her matronly bosom as she worked.

“Oh dear.  What am I going to do?  Do you know of anywhere else I might try?”

“What’s the problem, dear?” The matron swept up to Angela.

“My Mum needs a replacement tape measure – she snapped her old one – and she really wants one with inches on both sides.  She’ll not be happy at all if I take one with centimetres on.”

“I know just how she feels.  I can’t deal with all this metrication either.  But can’t she just use one side of the tape?”

“She says it bothers her to always have to be looking which side to use.”

“Why don’t you try Hatchett’s round the back of the cathedral?  Or look in the flea market?”

Angela left the department store, thoughts of the incident on Sunday driving her on. The screaming from the bedroom that had taken her upstairs to find her mother frenziedly chopping at her new tape measure.

“I’m not having that!” she had squealed at Angela “I measured my waist and it said 88! Frightened me out of my wits, damn centimetres. I’m not having THAT!”

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Bartholomew Sheet 32

When Stephen bought the map, he asked the shop manager if it could be wrapped.  It was an unusual request, half inch maps were rarely bought as gifts.  But the act of purchasing the item had made his customer look rapturous, and it was infectious.  Why not wrap a map?  Happy customers returned for more.

The rectangular brown package, tied up with delicate string, went home with Stephen in the inside pocket of his overcoat.  He felt it against his breast as he hung from a strap on the tube. He held it to his chest as he jogged up the five flights of stairs to the flat.  He swung through the front door and dodged the line of damp nappies and stockings. They were strung across the tiny lobby, absorbing the odour of frying potatoes. Without stopping to remove his coat, Stephen skipped into the tiny kitchen, where his wife stood at the gas stove.  It was taking all of Vera’s attention to stop the potatoes from sticking to the pan.  Her hair hung limply over her shoulders, she yawned and stretched as he approached.

“Good day dear?” It was her automatic greeting. 

“Marvellous!  Fantastic!  Superb!”

Vera put her old cooking spoon into the pan and properly looked at her husband.

“Was it?”

“Here.  Turn the gas off a mo and open your present.”  He produced the package from his coat pocket.

Vera took it from him and carefully sliced through the string with her potato knife.  She gave him the empty wrapping and turned over the map.

“A map of Sussex.  What do I need this for?” she resisted a smile.

He gave her a set of co-ordinates, scribbled in pencil on a torn edge of a newspaper.  With her rambling experience, she found the spot within seconds.

“The Arundel cottage?”

He nodded. “It’s ours!  Our new home in the country.  Hot and cold running and hikes every weekend without the need for transport.”

Vera clutched the map to her apron, while Stephen searched the scullery for that bottle of stout.

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The Mothballed Marriage

Rose had managed to secure the shop on cheap terms.  It had been empty for so long now, that a lot of people could not remember it ever being in use.  Originally, it had been the local Co-op – that was obvious from the aquamarine tiles around the plate glass window.  Then it had been a car spares shop and finally a newsagent.  Then, one Friday afternoon, the window had been whitewashed and filled with newspaper.  A piece of plywood had been nailed over the front door.  Ownership had changed hands several times since, but none of them had used the shop; only the flat above.  The newspaper in the window had turned yellow, and the print sun-bleached into oblivion.  The current landlord offered Rose use of the shop when she had just missed out on another of his properties.  As her business already thrived online the position of the premises was not as important as the large storeroom at the back. 

Rose first arrived on a Sunday morning, armed with voluminous overalls and a comprehensive selection of cleaning products.  The utility area seemed the most sensible place to begin renovations. It contained a kitchenette obviously installed during the 1970s, in fact the cupboards were the same type as those that had been in her family home when she was growing up.  She opened the first cupboard, half prepared to be assaulted by a family of something small and horrid.  It was empty, except for a lining of newspaper.  She pulled out the brittle pages and studied them.  It was an excerpt from the local Telegraph, dated June 1974, the weddings page.  A row of happy couples smiled up at her.  Rose’s own responsive grin faded however, as she saw the second couple’s photograph.    

“Dad?”

She read the entry again, more slowly.  Her father, marrying a woman who was not her mother.  Her father, married before Mum. He had never told her.  Was it deliberate deceit or had there just been no reason to mention it?  Her name was Helen. Where was Helen now?  Rose folded the paper carefully and placed it in her rucksack.  This afternoon’s family Sunday dinner was going to be the most interesting yet. 

At The Town Hall Fountain

I remember sitting on the low wall that hemmed in the old fountain.  I call it a fountain, but the water hadn’t moved for ages.  It was more of a large stagnant puddle with rusted up workings in the middle.  An empty Park Drive fag packet bobbed about the surface and I was watching it.  There was nothing else to do.

My Mum was in the Town Hall, queueing to pay the rent on our council flat.  It was a warm day anyway, but inside the badly designed extension it was sweltering.  People in the shuffling lines fanned themselves with their rent books and final reminders.  I was at that age where patience has yet to be appreciated and this was an age of fewer fears so I had gone outside to wait.  The sun glinted off the stagnant water making it look a vaguely pleasurable place to be.  I watched the bobbing fag packet and tried to resist putting my hand in the water.

The sound of shouting made me look.  A man and a woman were striding down the walkway, arguing.  They didn’t belong round here.  Local people did not argue so publicly, so passionately.  People that I knew simply grumbled and exchanged looks from under heavy brows.  But these two – they yelled, they waved arms, jabbed fingers.  She threw a carrier bag of something at him. This was the best entertainment ever.  Their accents reminded me of something you’d hear on the BBC telly.  As the man drew closer I realised why I thought this.  He was the man off the telly.  The man off Play School, the programme I watched when I got in from school.  He was oblivious to me as he passed close by, still yelling.  Mum came down the steps, putting her rent book in her handbag then holding out her hand for me to take. 

“Ooh, that’s him!”  She said “I wonder what he’s doing round here?”

“Having an argument” I observed.

“These telly types…” she tutted.

We walked on, passing the theatre where his face beamed out from a poster.  That explained it.    

An Accumulation

Harry Price had started in the Bookmaking trade in the yard at the back of the Crown.  He had done so when his father had decreed that he was ready to take over.  The punters trusted him, and he had always inspired loyal service from his runners.  The coppers left him alone and business was good.

When the 1960s came, new laws said that Harry need no longer hide away behind a back street pub.  And so, along with so many of his fellow tradesmen, he reluctantly joined the High Street.  He took on a small shop at the shabby end.  Formerly a fishmongers, he could never quite get rid of the smell – but the tiling was easy to clean and the spit and fag ends could be removed in one sweep.  Indoor life without windows didn’t suit so well though, and Harry nurtured a resentment.  The rent, the electric and the sweeping brushes were all a source of irritation.

One particular Saturday Harry’s habitual scowl became more pronounced. A big chain had opened up a bookies a bit further down the street, and to top it, Billy Jackson’s accumulator was close to coming up.  Just one more race to go – if the favourite came in Harry was done for.  Everything he owned would belong to Billy.  As the commentary started, the shop fell into quiet.  The punters all watched Harry either with sympathy or delighted interest.  The favourite led the field.  Harry wondered if it was time to retire anyway.  The final furlong came.  The favourite won. 

Harry shooed them all out of the shop and went to lock the door.  Some protested – what about Billy’s money when he came for it?  Harry told them that Billy knew where he lived, and he set off up the High Street.  He walked into the new bookies and flourished a neatly folded slip under the screen.  He’d agreed with Billy’s predictions and had placed the same bet – with triple the stake - with the new shop.  He smiled to himself as one of his old regulars pretended that he wasn’t there. 

The Rare Medium

He’d been gone a whole month now and still it was no better.  The very idea of never seeing Garry on screen again made June feel sick. No-one was able to console her.  The only time that she felt happy was when she climbed into her unchanged bed and began to drift off to sleep.  Then she could settle into her regular dreams, the ones where Garry was alive and well and visiting Rotherham on a promotional tour.  He would visit the cinema where she worked, clap eyes on her as she sold him an ice cream…and never take his eyes off her again.  He would lead her into the projection room and…and…well never mind, she’d usually nodded off by this stage.

Alexandra Haseldown-Smith.  The stars’ chosen Medium.

The advertisement was bold, confident, assertive.  June decided that there must be some substance to her claim or she wouldn’t place it in a national newspaper.

In regular contact with stars of stage and screen whom have passed over.  Seances held regularly in theatres and studios at the request of several well-known directors and actors.

If anyone could help her to make contact with Garry, it would be Alexandra Haseldown-Smith.  June hadn’t got much money, only what she’d saved for her bottom drawer.  But it looked like she’d never need that.  No other man could ever live up to Garry.  Especially in Rotherham.  Sod marriage, now that Garry hadn’t much else to do, he might talk to her, advise her in some way.  Tell her he would wait until she joined him.   June went out and bought the most spiritual looking notepaper that she could find (blue with faint lines).  She cleared the pots and pans off the kitchen table and sat down to write.

“Dear Miss Haseldown-Smith.  I need you to help me make contact with an actor that passed over recently.  I believe that he might have something to tell me.  Please can you help me?  I have a few pounds and can come to London if you need me to.  My future and my happiness depend on it.  I enclose a stamped addressed envelope.”

Cat in a Bag

As she tells me that she’s in trouble, she looks at me in the same way that a kitten might. She wants me to pick her up and pet her. Tell her that I’m going to keep her. But every bit of me wants to bundle her up in a sack and drop her in the deepest part of the Thames.

She’s been trailing me ever since I got back on my 48 hour pass from the base. I thought she was just hungry for some more of what she had last time, but there was never going to be any of that. Poor, innocent little kitten, doesn’t she know there’s a war on? Everything’s temporary these days. But now she’s telling me that there’s something lingering after that regrettable whiskey fumble. She’s telling me about reputations. Apparently I should be making hers my business.

But I’ve got another idea. Didn’t I once hear about a quack fellow in Soho who took care of these problems? It’s just persuading her. She’ll be hard work. I can see the reflection of the wedding flowers in her tiresome tears.

I regret my curiosity. I only wanted to be sure that all that kind of thing wasn’t for me. A test.  Now I know for sure that girls are just not my thing. The sooner I’m rid of this one… Then I can get to the boys on the base and the frisson of the smell of their sweat in the huts. There’s going to be some nice new raw recruits joining us tomorrow.

She’s stopped her jabbering now. She’s waiting for me to speak. I take out my wallet and offer her crumpled notes. She throws them back at me, and, oh Lord here we go, she begins to wail. The air raid siren starts up in sympathy. I turn her around and push her towards the tube station steps. The steep, steep staircase delves down into the ground before us. The place begins to get crowded. A stumble into the depths would be easy to engineer in the dark and the rush...all I have to do is prise those little claws out of my jacket sleeve.