Rose. I wish you wouldnt put on so much make-up.
Dont be silly. If I dont wear plenty, Dickie says to me, whats up with you, are you flying the red flag?
But you havent seen Dickie for weeks.
But we might run into him. Thats one of the reasons Im taking you. He always takes me where were going, and if hes got another woman, then Ill catch him out and have a good laugh.
Soon she had painted her daytime face over her real face, and had moulded her hair into a solid mass of black scrolls and waves. When Rose was dressed and made-up she always looked the same. She was conforming to some image of herself that was not the fashionable image for that year, but about three years ago. She took fashion papers, but the way we were supposed to look that year struck her as being extreme. She used to laugh at the pictures of fashion models, say: They do look silly, dont they? and go off to her room to make herself into something that seemed to her safe and respectable, because she was used to it.
Come on, get yourself dressed.
But I am dressed.
If youre coming out with me, then youve got to dress up.
She pulled out the dress she wanted me to wear, and stood over me till I put it on. She knew I did not like the Corner House, but tolerated my dislike. She was only exerting her rights as a neighbour, exactly as I might go into her and say: Im depressed, please come and sit with me. At such times she put aside whatever she was occupied with, and came at once; she recognized a tone in my voice; she knew what was due to communal living.
We always walked to the bus-stop, and it had to be the same bus-stop, and the same bus, though there were several which would have done. She kept pulling me back, saying: No, not that bus. Thats not the number I like. And if the bus did not have seats free, downstairs, on the left-hand side, she would wait until one came that had. She made me sit near the window. She liked to sit on the aisle, and she held her exact fare in her hand, watching the conductor until he came for it. She handed it over with a firm look, as if to say: Im not trying to get away with anything. And she put away the ticket in a certain pocket in her handbag one could not be too careful.
But this ritual was for when we went out, because on ordinary occasions she would take the first bus that came, and sit anywhere and was not above diddling the company out of tuppence on the fare if she could. Pleasure was different, and part of pleasure was to pay for it.
At the Corner House there was always a queue. I might say: Itll be half an hour at least. I regarded queueing as tedious. Rose did not. On one occasion, after we had been twenty minutes in the queue, and were nearly at its head, a woman tried to push in front of us. And then Rose the meek. Rose the resigned, Rose, who would spend a whole evening on her knees with a bucket and a brush because she could not say No to Flo; Rose who would stay up till two in the morning ironing and washing Dickies shirts, and then re-damp and re-iron them if there was the slightest crease in the collar and all this devotion at a time when she was not even seeing him; this patient and enduring woman suddenly set her feet apart, put her hands on her hips, and allowed her eyes to flash. Excuse me! she began in a belligerent voice, glancing at the rest of the queue for support. Every one was, of course, on her side; every one had been schooled by years of practice in queue-ethics, and had been watching, just as she had, with ox-eyed impassivity for some imposter to push forward. Rose pulled the offender by the elbow and said: Here, you havent queued, get to the back. The woman smiled in uncertain bravado, opened her mouth to fight, saw the hostile faces all around her, and then, with a pert shrug of her shoulders, went to the back of the queue.
Rose said loudly: People trying to get away with things. And she stood triumphantly, standing up for her rights.
When at last our group, which had stood on the fringe of the table-packed space for at least ten minutes, were waved forward by a waiter like a policeman directing traffic, Rose tipped him and whispered, and we were taken to a table immediately by the band. Rose liked to sit just there; it meant she could lean over and ask for the tunes she wanted. She said: You can get the music you want without tipping the waiter to ask for you. But that was not the reason. It was that it gave her a feeling of homely satisfaction to be able to smile at the drummer, and get a nod and a smile back again.
She did not like the food much. She used to say: Flos spoiled me, she has really. But she always ordered the same: beans on toast, with chips and spaghetti. I could not understand why until she said: Thats what we used to get during the war in the canteen. It reminds me, see?
We used to stay for about two hours, eating and submitting to the music. Then she stretched herself and said: Thanks for coming, dear. I havent seen that so-and-so Dickie, but Ive enjoyed it ever so much.
Then we walked up Regent Street, very slowly, stopping at each window, criticizing every dress or pair of shoes. Rose had a different standard for these clothes than for the ones she wore herself. She judged these against the current fashions and was critical. She chose dresses for film stars she liked, not for herself. Sometimes we went the whole street without her approving of anything. She would say: Lot of rubbish today, isnt there? Not anything Id like to see Betty Grable in. Sometimes I think those fashion-men think were fools, with more money than sense.
Going home on the bus we played her favourite game spending the money she was going to win in the football pools. She never had less than ten thousand pounds to spend. She was going to buy herself a mink coat, some expensive clothes, and a little restaurant for herself and Dickie. She had chosen the house she wanted. It had a garden for the children she intended to have, and was about ten minutes from where we lived, with a For Sale sign on it. We often went there in the evenings to look at it. I hope it wont be sold too soon, shed say, not before I win the pools. And then Listen to me, talking silly. Still, someones got to win it, havent they?
When autumn comes, she said. Ill teach you about the pools. I look forward to the pools all the summer. It gives you some excitement in life, doing the pools every week and waiting to hear whos won.
She paid Flo thirty shillings a week for her room. It was understood that for this sum she could eat Sunday dinner with the family. It was also understood that if she was invited to another meal during the week, she must pay for it in washing-up or scrubbing or ironing. Her rent included an early morning cup of tea. Rose never drank this, because she slept till the last minute before rushing off to work, so that the tea, left outside her room by Jack, who left for work an hour before she did, was always cold. But if he forgot to leave it there, she made a state trip downstairs, to say: I like people to keep their word. If I pay for a thing, then its my affair what I do with it afterwards. So every morning the cup of tea cooled outside her door, and was later emptied into the sink by Flo, who grumbled good-naturedly: Some people!
Rose did not eat breakfast. Why waste money eating when youre still full of sleep, anyway? She ate a sausage roll or a sandwich at midday. These odd snacks during the day cost her ten shillings: she did not eat seriously unless invited by Flo. Two pounds left out of her earnings. She smoked ten cigarettes a day another ten shillings.
That left her thirty shillings. On pay-day she arranged this balance on her dressing-table and played with it, frowning and smiling, talking of how she might spend it.
She did not plan for holidays: when she had time off she went down to stay with her mother. Nor did she go to parties. Sometimes she dropped down to the Palais at Hammersmith on a Wednesday evening, and came back dispirited: None of them were as good as Dickie, say what you like. They just make me laugh.
In the end, the money always went on clothes. And in a way which was richly satisfactory to Rose, because she seldom bought in shops, only things like gloves and nylons. She got her clothes from her employer. That fat pale woman spent a great deal on her clothes, and luckily for Rose had only just put on weight. Her cupboards were full of things she would never wear again. Rose would haggle over a dress or a suit she coveted for months, until at last she came in, victorious, saying: Ive got it for twenty-seven-and-six, there go my cream cakes for a month, not to mention the pictures, but look, this dress cost that fat bitch twenty-five guineas. So it was, when Rose was dressed to go out, she looked as if what she wore had cost her six months wages. She would stand for a long time in front of the tall looking-glass in my room, surveying herself with grim satisfaction. Finally she would say: Well, it only goes to show, doesnt it? a remark into which was concentrated her attitute towards the rich and the talented, an attitude without envy or sourness, but which was full of self-respect, and implicit in everything she said or did.
And yet, although she dressed herself through these means, she was upset when I said I was going to sell some of my clothes to the second-hand shops. You dont want to do that, she protested.
Theyre too big for you, or you could have them.
And what would I be doing with all those evening dresses? She examined them, and said: Well, you must have had a good time where you came from.
Everyone dances there. Its a place where people dance a lot.
Yes?
Its not expensive to dance.
Yes?
But its true.
Yes? All I know is, dancing is floor-space and a band and things to eat and drink. Thats money. Who pays for it? Someone does.
All the same, I want to sell these things, theyre no good to me.
Well, dont sell them around here, thats all.
Why not?
Its not nice, is it. People might see, and say things.
Why should I care?