Maggie Sullivan - Christmas on Coronation Street - The perfect Christmas read

‘This bar’s not for the likes of you, even if you were old enough,’ he said, his voice surly. ‘So go on, ’oppit. Unaccompanied women, entrance round the corner.’ He indicated with his thumb.

‘I’m here about the job.’ Elsie jutted her chin out and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping she sounded stronger than she felt. ‘The one on the door.’ She indicated the glass panel where she had seen the advert. ‘Who do I need to see?’

The man took off his glasses and peered down at her. ‘You don’t look half old enough,’ he said.

‘Oh, but I am. It’s me birthday very soon. I’ll be eighteen,’ she put in for good measure, remembering what she had read on the poster. Thankfully, she had always been tall for her age – she would look even taller if only she had the money for a proper pair of shoes. But she was glad at least she had put her hair up that morning with some pins she’d found in the toilets at work. She only wished she had a bit of carmine to dab on her cheeks as she bit her lips again to redden them up. Unfortunately, the landlord was not impressed.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘pull the other one, it’s got bells on.’

‘It’s true.’ The young man from the street stepped forward, his fingers gripping a couple of dirty drinking glasses. He had stopped by Elsie and moved closer to her as he spoke.

‘Oh yes, and how do you know that?’ the landlord asked.

‘’Cos I knows her. We’re mates. Ain’t that so, Else?’

Elsie tried not to show her astonishment, not only that he knew her name when she hadn’t a clue about his, but that he dared to shorten it in such a familiar way. But she wasn’t about to contradict him. ‘Yes, that’s right, mister.’ She looked back at the heavy-set older man and fluttered her eyelids like she had seen Mae West do in the cinema. When the landlord began to smile, she hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

But he did seem to be taking her more seriously now. ‘Have you worked in a bar before?’ he asked.

Elsie thought back to the time a few years ago when her father had taken her with him into the Three Hammers at the top end of Back Gas Street. She was so young the innkeeper had declared her, ‘The youngest child that ever set foot in my pub!’ Since there were no customers about at the time, he had lifted her on to his knee and let her pull a pint. She recalled the way he’d instructed her to tilt the glass so that there was just enough of a head on it rather than a glassful of frothy foam. After giving her a sip, he’d downed it himself in a few long gulps.

‘Yes, I know how to pull a pint,’ Elsie said, crossing her fingers behind her back in the hope that she wouldn’t be caught out in the lie. ‘Any road up,’ she thought she’d better add, ‘I’m a fast learner.’ She winked at him. ‘If you know what I mean.’

Elsie caught his astonished gaze and was aware of his sudden scrutiny. She willed herself not to look away, knowing that if she wanted to get anywhere she was going to have to brazen it out. Just then there was an icy blast as both the double doors were pulled open sharply from the outside and a crowd of men rushed in. They were a mixed bunch. Some were young, some middle-aged, one or two were positively old, but they were all jostling for the honour of being first through the door like it was the most important thing in the world.

‘Now then, gents. Easy does it. Slow down a bit, will you,’ the man at the till called out, his attention diverted from Elsie. ‘We’ve room for you all, so what the hell’s the rush?’

There were several shouts of, ‘We’re thirsty,’ which for some reason made everyone laugh.

Then someone called from within the crowd, ‘Aye, aye, landlord,’ and he raised his arm in an exaggerated mock salute.

‘He thinks he’s in the bloody army already,’ his mate shouted, elbowing his friend in the ribs, to much general laughter.

‘I’m as good as,’ the first man said.

‘That’s right. Going to be shipped off to Spain to fight in the bleeding Civil War,’ one of the old men explained proudly.

‘I suppose they can do with all the help they can get out there,’ another agreed.

‘They must be bloody desperate to want him, is all I can say,’ a young lad muttered.

‘Can anyone sign up?’ Her new ‘friend’ the bar helper was trying to pass through the mob with more dirty glasses between his fingers. The crowd fell silent for a moment when he spoke; Elsie was taken aback by how serious he looked.

‘Of course. It’s a bloody fiasco out there.’ It was the newly enlisted man who replied.

‘They say Madrid’s under siege and things are going to get worse,’ the old man who could have been his father went on.

‘Well, I’ve signed up,’ the soldier said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘and I’m off in the morning. So this will be my last drink on English soil for quite some time. Let’s make the most of it, eh lads?’ He turned to look at them all. ‘Are you ready, fellas?’

The helper put his head down now and scurried back to drop off the glasses to be washed. Elsie stood uncertainly in the centre of the sawdust-covered floor. She was completely surrounded by the excited group of men until one of them moved away to go and stand at the end of the bar. He banged his fist on the countertop that was already swilling in ale and shouted, ‘Landlord, let’s be having some pints over here,’ and a loud cheer erupted from the crowd.

Elsie still didn’t move. She was mesmerized by the scene that had so suddenly changed with the arrival of the newcomers. War, war, war seemed to be all men wanted to talk about these days. Even her father had been moaning about Hitler invading half of Europe. Only this morning he’d told her mother, ‘It won’t be long before we’re dragged into a bleeding dogfight.’

Elsie had tried to shut her ears. She avoided looking at headlines about a possible war although there were often newspapers lying around at the factory. She didn’t want to talk about it, even though some of the older girls could talk of nothing else. What if Britain did get involved in a major war in Europe? What if their sweethearts were called up for active duty? They seemed to be proud and excited, but afraid at the same time. Elsie couldn’t make sense of it. Weren’t we already supposed to have had the war to end all wars? She was thankful her only brother was far too young to be called up into any army; as she had no proper sweetheart yet she refused to think about what war would mean for her. Not that she could avoid it completely. Even their Phyllis at almost thirteen years old was earning a few coppers shouting out the headlines about the latest German invasions from the Weatherfield Gazette stand. Let’s face it, she thought. No one could be sure what was going to happen.

Elsie was far more interested in the Royal fairy tale that continued to fill the newspapers than the chances of Britain getting embroiled in another war. To her the story of the abdicated King and his stylish American wife was worth talking about any day of the week. During the summer months, she had eagerly looked for discarded newspapers with that story in the headlines. She had been captivated the day the front page of the Weatherfield Gazette had been devoted to their magical wedding in France; she had even cut a picture of the happy couple from a copy of the paper she had found several weeks after the event.

Now she took in the room full of chattering men and smiled. None of them were talking about love stories with fairy-tale endings. Men never seemed interested in things like that. They were so engrossed in their talk of war that they seemed to have forgotten all about her.

Unsure what she should do, Elsie hesistated. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene, so perhaps she might as well go home. The landlord was rushed off his feet, helping the redheaded barman to serve the new customers who were now standing two and three deep at the bar, waving their money and shouting their orders. The young man she had followed had disappeared completely, probably taking another batch of glasses to be washed in the sink.