leave it.’
‘Oh, I’ll take it please.’ Maggie is conscious of how high and tinkling her voice sounds compared to that of her landlady who, she later discovers, smokes forty Players a day. Maggie wishes her accent wasn’t so obviously southern, although Mr Howard – Clive – seemed to like it. ‘Pretty voice, that,’ he’d said at her audition. ‘Might find you a speaking part if you make out well.’
‘Is tha working?’ The landlady does not smile, nor does she remove her hands from her hips as she eyes the ten-shilling notes in Maggie’s outstretched hand. She’ll not let rooms to lasses without jobs, not under any circumstances.
‘Yes,’ Maggie says quickly. ‘I’m starting at the Playhouse on Monday – Assistant Stage Manager.’
The landlady relaxes. ‘Ta, love.’ She counts the money with practised rapidity before putting it in her apron pocket. ‘I’m Dot. You’ll meet Alf, me husband, and the other boarders at teatime – that’s half past five sharp. What’ll we call thee?’
‘Maggie,’ she says. ‘Maggie Harrison.’
Dot nods. ‘There’s a washbasin in’t lavvy but if you want a bath, it’s a shilling and I’ll need a day’s notice. No baths on Sundays – that’s mine and Alf’s bath night – and Mr Totley downstairs has his on a Friday.’ She then runs through the rules of the house: keep the wireless turned down, no music after nine o’clock and no visitors after eight. Maggie can rinse a few things through in the bathroom if she puts a shilling in the meter, but there’s a launderette – Dot pronounces it ‘laundriette’ – on the corner. There’s a telephone box on the main road by the bus stop. The house telephone is Dot’s private number and only to be used by the boarders in special circumstances and if they put thruppence in the box. The gas fire is operated by a coin meter, which takes one- and two-shilling pieces, of which Dot has a supply should Maggie need to change a ten-bob note. Maggie is beginning to wonder quite what the ‘all’ in ‘all included’ in the advert meant.
‘Get thi sen unpacked, then, love, and I’ll see thee at teatime – in’t big kitchen, second door on’t right as tha comes down ’ stairs.’
The bed almost caves in as she sits on it, and there is a musty smell about the bedding. It’s no palace, but it’s hers.
After Maggie has settled in, she telephones her brother from the call box. ‘I’m here, safe and sound.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve got the room I rang up about. You should see the landlady! Sixty if she’s a day and plastered in make-up – like those mannequins in C&A’s window.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, Leonard. Stop sulking.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. You’re talking in that sulky voice.’
‘It’s too quiet here without you.’
‘You’ll get used to it. Anyway, it’s not like I’m never coming back, is it? You can come and see me once I’ve settled in. And we can write.’
‘I was going to write today anyway. I didn’t get a chance to tell you what happened at work last night – you’ll wet yourself!’ He sounds happier now, but she feels a pang. She’ll miss her old job; at least, she’ll miss the dramas and scandals that are part of life in a hotel kitchen. But if she doesn’t get away now, she’ll end up doing the same job, in the same place, for the next thirty years. Both her parents had cooked for a living, working in hot, windowless kitchens all their lives, and now Leonard was doing it too.
The pips go and she puts in another tuppence.
‘I’m going to have to go in a minute,’ she says. ‘The landlady’s strict about mealtimes. We’re having toad-in-the hole tonight. It smells awful.’
‘You can’t eat muck like that; you’ll die!’
‘Quite possibly. What’s on at work this week?’
‘Veal escalopes in Marsala sauce, beef Wellington and lobster risotto. See what you’re missing? Listen, I was looking through the Stage this afternoon and
‘Oh, I’ll take it please.’ Maggie is conscious of how high and tinkling her voice sounds compared to that of her landlady who, she later discovers, smokes forty Players a day. Maggie wishes her accent wasn’t so obviously southern, although Mr Howard – Clive – seemed to like it. ‘Pretty voice, that,’ he’d said at her audition. ‘Might find you a speaking part if you make out well.’
‘Is tha working?’ The landlady does not smile, nor does she remove her hands from her hips as she eyes the ten-shilling notes in Maggie’s outstretched hand. She’ll not let rooms to lasses without jobs, not under any circumstances.
‘Yes,’ Maggie says quickly. ‘I’m starting at the Playhouse on Monday – Assistant Stage Manager.’
The landlady relaxes. ‘Ta, love.’ She counts the money with practised rapidity before putting it in her apron pocket. ‘I’m Dot. You’ll meet Alf, me husband, and the other boarders at teatime – that’s half past five sharp. What’ll we call thee?’
‘Maggie,’ she says. ‘Maggie Harrison.’
Dot nods. ‘There’s a washbasin in’t lavvy but if you want a bath, it’s a shilling and I’ll need a day’s notice. No baths on Sundays – that’s mine and Alf’s bath night – and Mr Totley downstairs has his on a Friday.’ She then runs through the rules of the house: keep the wireless turned down, no music after nine o’clock and no visitors after eight. Maggie can rinse a few things through in the bathroom if she puts a shilling in the meter, but there’s a launderette – Dot pronounces it ‘laundriette’ – on the corner. There’s a telephone box on the main road by the bus stop. The house telephone is Dot’s private number and only to be used by the boarders in special circumstances and if they put thruppence in the box. The gas fire is operated by a coin meter, which takes one- and two-shilling pieces, of which Dot has a supply should Maggie need to change a ten-bob note. Maggie is beginning to wonder quite what the ‘all’ in ‘all included’ in the advert meant.
‘Get thi sen unpacked, then, love, and I’ll see thee at teatime – in’t big kitchen, second door on’t right as tha comes down ’ stairs.’
The bed almost caves in as she sits on it, and there is a musty smell about the bedding. It’s no palace, but it’s hers.
After Maggie has settled in, she telephones her brother from the call box. ‘I’m here, safe and sound.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve got the room I rang up about. You should see the landlady! Sixty if she’s a day and plastered in make-up – like those mannequins in C&A’s window.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, Leonard. Stop sulking.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. You’re talking in that sulky voice.’
‘It’s too quiet here without you.’
‘You’ll get used to it. Anyway, it’s not like I’m never coming back, is it? You can come and see me once I’ve settled in. And we can write.’
‘I was going to write today anyway. I didn’t get a chance to tell you what happened at work last night – you’ll wet yourself!’ He sounds happier now, but she feels a pang. She’ll miss her old job; at least, she’ll miss the dramas and scandals that are part of life in a hotel kitchen. But if she doesn’t get away now, she’ll end up doing the same job, in the same place, for the next thirty years. Both her parents had cooked for a living, working in hot, windowless kitchens all their lives, and now Leonard was doing it too.
The pips go and she puts in another tuppence.
‘I’m going to have to go in a minute,’ she says. ‘The landlady’s strict about mealtimes. We’re having toad-in-the hole tonight. It smells awful.’
‘You can’t eat muck like that; you’ll die!’
‘Quite possibly. What’s on at work this week?’
‘Veal escalopes in Marsala sauce, beef Wellington and lobster risotto. See what you’re missing? Listen, I was looking through the Stage this afternoon and
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