We Passengers

Chapter 11

When I think about that time, it's like somebody telling you a story about something that happened somewhere else - to someone else. It was a time when there was no war, no rations and no TB; not properly anyway. It was a story about a young woman who didn't have a care in the world other than the usual mundane things like work, money and whether I'd ever get the curls to stay in my hair for longer than an hour. It was the curls that caused all the trouble and nearly kept me indoors that Saturday night. The Criterion was putting on a special Spring Dance and I'd arranged to go with the girls and I was all excited; not least because it would give me the chance to finally wear that yellow dress. I'd got dressed and done a bit of covert swishing in mine and Nancy's bedroom and then set about doing something with my hair. Straight, fine and lank, it was used to being wound into a bun and then shoved under my Conductor's hat but, the night before the big dance, I'd borrowed Mum's big curlers and worn them not only to bed but all the way through the day on the Saturday. Having dressed in my beautiful dress and kitten heels, I began to take out the curlers only to find that, rather than chic curls, my hair had turned into a mad mess of loops, each going in a different direction and I began to furiously drag the hairbrush through in the hope of taming them. Of course that only made it worse so that, instead of loops, I ended up with matted lumps that were full of static electricity. My howl of despair brought Mum running and then, of course, she had to do the worst thing possible - she laughed. Course, I laughed about it with her afterwards but, at the time, it felt like the end of the world. Thankfully, Mum had had her share of curler disasters in her time and, between us, we managed to dampen it into submission and twist it into a sort of chignon which, although not perfect, was at least acceptable. Oh, the things that girl used to worry about in that other life! With the disaster averted, I was finally able to leave the house to go and meet Cynthia and Ethel at the bus stop, all of us feeling like Cinderella going to the ball, even if our stagecoach was the number eighty eight to Tottenham Court Road. When we arrived, they were playing Louis Jordan's ‘Keep A Knocking’ and, even though it was early, people were already on the dancefloor but not us, not yet. Grabbing drinks from the bar, we took a table in the corner where we could see the dancefloor and, more importantly Cynthia said, could see everyone who came in. Man mad she was, Cynthia, probably still is! After a couple of drinks, we were ready for a dance and so we snagged our bags and made our way onto the floor just as The Andrews Sisters ‘Beer Barrel Polka’ started and we shuffled around to that even though I was never a fan. We were just about to make our way back to our table when a scuffle broke out between a couple of blokes who'd been standing near us. I said that there was no war back then but, of course, we all knew it was on its way and there was a tension in the air that you could almost touch. It was no doubt this tension that caused the trouble between these blokes - the same tension that caused some girls to behave in a way that would land them in trouble but, nevertheless, punches were thrown, chairs were knocked over and beer flew…..all down the side of my new dress. The fight had barely begun when a young man appeared from nowhere and grabbed one of the trouble-makers by the arm, dragging him across the dancefloor and out through the front door. I assumed that they were friends and would be on their way home having had their evening cut short and so I jumped about a foot when, a moment later, I heard a voice right next to my ear say,

‘Sorry about your dress, will it wash?’ I turned toward the voice and found myself gazing into the bluest pair of eyes I've ever seen and, for a moment, I couldn't speak - which didn't really matter as, before I got a chance, he said, ‘I know you don't I?’ I get that a lot - anyone who has ever traveled on the number eighty eight has, at one time or another, stopped me to tell me they know me.

‘Not really,’ I managed after a few seconds, ‘but you might have seen me on the bus - I'm a Conductor.’ It didn't escape my attention that I still said those words with pride and, when I did, he smiled,

‘That'll be it; number eighty eight from Bethnal Green?’ I nodded, hoping that he wasn't going to make some joke about letting him off his fare next time. Instead he asked if I would save the first slow dance for him. Then he asked if he could walk me home. Then, about four months later, he asked if I would marry him. Of course I said yes, as I'm sure he knew I would; I was mad about him and Mum and Nancy both loved him and that was good enough for me, still is. The dress was never the same again though, even though Nancy wore it a couple of times after me; the trick was to wear a little cardi to hide the beer stain.

Funny the things you think about and, how thinking about something as silly as a dress can bring back all sorts of memories. That yellow dress probably has more memories tucked into its skirts than my wedding dress which is a bit sad when you think about it. We're in the countryside proper now and the rain's started again but listlessly, as though it hasn't got the energy to have a proper go at it so that, instead of the fat drops we had bouncing off the windows earlier, now I just see pathetic little smears on the glass that are gone almost as soon as they appear. I realise that I'm feeling sorry for myself and make up my mind to stop it - after all, I've still got my family and that's what's important isn't it? It's more than you can say for some poor sods. Like Trevor, for instance, my Trevor who's had to go through more than anyone ought to be expected to; like what happened to his parents. A crying shame that was - specially as they were supposed to be in Kent that day, visiting family but Trevor's Dad said he couldn't leave the shop, not with Trevor away at war and nobody else to hold the fort. I'd never sent a telegram before in my life before that day.