Maggie Sullivan - Mother’s Day on Coronation Street

By the end of the week Annie was surprised how tired she was, given that she had spent much of her time perched on a bar stool by the till while her new barmaid, Gracie, ran around after the customers. But the constant buzz of conversation and the fog of smoke that permanently filled the atmosphere had given her a headache. Tobacco was supposed to be in short supply but there was no shortage of cigarettes among the American soldiers who were distributing packages of tens and twenties generously.

One afternoon Annie felt in desperate need of a rest and longed for a chance to go back upstairs for a brief break. As they weren’t very busy, she signalled her intentions to Gracie and got down from the bar stool. She was about to slip away behind the curtain that separated the vestibule to her living quarters from the public bar when she saw a young girl, with long blonde hair straggling over her shoulders, push her way through the double doors of the street entrance. Her greasy-looking fringe almost covered her eyebrows and her eyes were virtually invisible as she tried to peer out from underneath. Her clothes were even shabbier than most of the young women who came into the Rovers these days. The last time she had seen such a young girl in the bar was when Elsie Grimshaw, now Elsie Tanner, living at number 11 Coronation Street, had first put in an appearance when she was not yet of an age to be drinking alcohol. Not that this girl had Elsie’s poise, or the touch of glamour that had somehow surrounded Elsie even in her darkest days. The appeal and charm Elsie exerted over others was obvious right from the start, so that when Annie had insisted she be served only lemonade she knew for certain that Elsie’s friends were slipping her the odd shot of gin. This one looked even younger than Elsie had been then and Annie could feel her hackles rising. She stepped down from the stool ready to do battle.

The fair-haired girl glanced about her almost furtively as she stepped nearer to the bar and, when she caught Annie’s eye, it seemed as if she might turn and run out again. But then a resolute look crossed her face and she made a strange sight as she walked up to the counter in a determined manner. Large black shoes flapped out beneath a blue serge skirt, so that it looked like the old-fashioned Edwardian style. The skirt’s coarse material was gathered at the waist under a stiff buckram band that seemed to be cutting her in half and the whole thing looked like a hand-me-down because it was too big and much too long for her, far longer than the current fashion dictated, given the limited availability of fabric. A tight, rib-knit jumper with several holes in it flattened whatever there was of her breasts. The girl’s hands were hidden from view, plunged into the two side pockets, and a small wooden box was tucked under one arm.

‘Can I help you? Annie asked in the most superior voice she could muster. Now that she was close to, she felt as if there was something familiar about the girl’s face. Was it the unusually high cheekbones that didn’t seem to have much flesh on them, or the narrow chin giving her a diffident, almost impish, look that Annie was sure she had seen before?

‘I’ve not come to drink,’ the girl said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’

Annie’s laughter was steeped in sarcasm. ‘I should hope not, young lady. I don’t know who you are, but one thing I do know is that you are far too young to be in a pub at all. Now I must ask you to leave or they’ll be after my licence.’ The girl glanced down. She had released her hands from her pockets and was twisting her fingers awkwardly, only stopping now and then to pick at the cuticles. Her hands looked red and sore; Annie’s response had obviously unnerved her and she suddenly seemed unsure.

‘You’d better leave quietly before I get cross.’ Annie made a waving motion in the direction of the door but the girl didn’t move. She plunged her hands back into her pockets.

‘I’ll go as soon as you’ve answered my question,’ she said, her voice suddenly strong.

‘Oh, and what question is that?’ Annie sounded amused.

‘Is your name Anne?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for someone called Anne.’

Annie’s first reaction was to raise her eyebrows in astonishment. As the landlady of the Rovers Return she was not unknown in these parts, but she would never have expected a young girl to march in and ask for her by name like that. Then she frowned. She tilted her head trying to get a closer look at the girl’s face; there was something familiar about those cheekbones …

‘And who …’ Annie began. But the girl cut across her.

‘Did you used to work at Fletcher’s Mill?’ the girl asked.

Now Annie’s jaw fell open and for a moment she was speechless. Nobody knew about the time she’d worked at the mill. Except for her mother and Jack, of course, but the shame of it would preclude Florence from ever disclosing the fact to anyone. She glanced round the room. Quite a few of the locals and several GI soldiers still lingered, though to her relief no one seemed to be listening to what the girl was saying.

‘I think you’d better come this way,’ Annie said abruptly, her voice stiff and unnatural, and lifting the velvet curtain she led the way through the little vestibule that lay behind it, and into the living room.

Gracie had seen the young girl enter the bar and was unsure what she should do so she was pleased that Annie had not yet gone upstairs and was still around to deal with her, but she was surprised to see Annie usher her into her private quarters. Annie had been looking tired before the girl appeared and was looking even more so after speaking to her. Gracie wondered who she was. She collected all the dead glasses and went to attend to Mrs Sharples, who had just banged her pint pot on the counter demanding immediate attention in her customary way. Gracie recognised the girl’s face. She had seen her hanging round outside on her way into work but when Gracie had tried to smile at her she had quickly looked away. She had been carrying a small wooden box with her then and she was carrying it now. What could she want with Annie Walker, she wondered? What would she give to listen at the living room door in the vestibule!

‘A pint of stout when you’ve finished dreaming.’ It was Ena Sharples. Her reputation went before her and Gracie was anxious not to cross swords with her.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Gracie said. ‘What can I get you?’

Ena shook her head at Gracie’s forgetfulness, but for once she just pointed at the row of black bottles and didn’t say anything.

Annie gathered herself in the time it took to usher the girl into the room and settle her in to a chair. It took a few moments but finally her breathing rate returned to normal. She would have welcomed any excuse to leave the room while she collected her thoughts. But she knew she couldn’t do that.

She sat down opposite the girl and entwined her fingers so that her hands lay passively in her lap.

‘Now then, young lady,’ she said and smiled benignly, ‘who are you exactly? And what is it you want to know?’

‘I want to know if you’re Anne Beaumont. It’s not such a difficult question, is it?’ The girl lifted her chin and tried to sound defiant but it was obvious her bubble of initial confidence was beginning to deflate as Annie’s gaze didn’t flinch. ‘My name’s Annette, Annette Oliver,’ she added looking away.

Annie’s brows knitted together. The name didn’t immediately mean anything to her, but the similarity to her own name was not lost on her. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’ she asked.

The girl shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ She looked as if she was going to say something else but then changed her mind.

Annie’s eyes were then drawn to a white lawn handkerchief Annette was pulling out of the box that had been under her arm. She could clearly see the initials that had been embroidered in the corner in red silk thread. AB. Now it was Annie’s turn to look uncomfortable. She visibly blanched. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, her voice sharp now.