Sharon Griffiths - Time of My Life

We marched into work, Peggy and I, walking together, umbrellas up against the suddenly fierce spring rain, neither of us in the best of moods, neither of us saying a word. Not only had I not been able to get a drink last night, but when I got back to the house, supper was liver and onions and congealing cabbage, left in the oven for me, stuck to the plate with skin on the gravy. And that Janice was there again, doing sums about compound interest that stretched for pages and pages.

‘Always get an interest-free credit card,’ I’d offered as an attempt at a bit of cheerful advice, but then had to explain to her what a credit card was. It sounds so stupid when you try to explain it. And all the time my mind was full of thoughts of Will and his wife. And three children. It had to be a trick or a challenge, didn’t it?

It was like that bit in 1984 where Room 101 is full of all the things that people dread most. Well, I realised that what I dreaded most was losing Will. Only I hadn’t realised it until now. Obviously the TV people knew more about me than I knew about myself. Clever and cruel. No wonder I hadn’t slept. My eyes felt raw.

At breakfast Peggy was being a real pain, obviously more than normal as even her dad kept asking her if she was all right, but she only snapped back at him. Anyway, his mind was on other things and Mrs Brown was worried about a friend who was having some problems with her husband. So everyone was a bit distracted really.

Mrs Brown had dashed out even earlier than usual. ‘I want to go around to Joan’s and sort out a few things for her there. Dennis has had one of his turns again. Smashed the kitchen up this time.’

‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘Has she called the police? Is she safe? You don’t have to put up with domestic violence.’

‘He can’t help it,’ she said, gathering up her bag and scarf. ‘It’s them bloody Japs. They worked him almost to death in that prison camp. Before the war he was the loveliest, kindest man you could imagine. Now he gets these rages.’

‘Isn’t there some treatment he could have? Therapy? Counselling? Compensation? How on earth does his wife cope?’

I’d read all the articles on domestic violence, and written a fair few too. I knew the score and the helpline numbers.

Mrs Brown looked at me pityingly. ‘She’s just glad she’s got him back at all. And it’s not as bad as it was. It was fearful at first, like looking after a wounded animal. Now he’s much better, most of the time. But then something will start him off, something will remind him, and she has to sit with him and hold him and talk to him and keep him out of the children’s way. So I’ll just pop round to give her a hand and at least I’ll make sure the kids get a decent meal. You two can fend for yourselves. There’s some ham in the pantry and some cheese and I’ll pop a couple of potatoes in the oven for you so they should be baked when you get home. And there’s some of that treacle tart left.’

‘Right-o, Mum,’ said Peggy, ‘but I might be going out anyway.’

‘That’s nice, dear. In by ten o’clock, mind. You’ve got work tomorrow,’ said Mrs Brown, but she was already halfway out of the door before Peggy could say anything in reply.

I expected her to sound off. In by ten o’clock! Peggy was twenty-six, not sixteen for heaven’s sake. But she didn’t say anything. Staggering. On the other hand, if Peggy’s another competitor then maybe it was a test for her and she’s better at not overreacting than I am.

We arrived at The News offices still in silence, and as we got to the front door, both of us sort of stopped and took a deep breath before we went into the building. I glanced across at Peggy. There was a hint of a smile, a glimmer of recognition and fellow feeling, but not enough for me to ask.

I wasn’t sure about all this at all. If this was a reality TV programme then I should have had some rules, some instructions, some guidelines, some clue about what was going on. And if it was Narnia, then where was a helpful faun or a Mrs Beaver with buttered toast? Or an Aslan to make everything right?

I took a deep breath and went into the reporters’ room, bracing myself for seeing Will. I could cope. Of course I could cope. This was only a TV programme, for goodness’ sake. It wasn’t real life. As I hung my coat up, I took a quick look around, oh so casually, and when I came to his desk, I prepared myself, controlled my expression … but he wasn’t there. I let out a huge sigh. I didn’t know whether from relief or disappointment, but I’d been holding my breath so hard that my chest hurt.

Gordon was talking to the other reporters, Alan, Tony and Derek, allocating jobs.

‘Billy’s over in the district office today, chasing something up, so you can do his jobs,’ he was saying to Alan.

‘Anything for me?’ I asked, keeping a desk between me and Gordon. I was careful not to stand too near to him. Already he had a habit of getting even closer and ‘accidentally’ brushing against my bum or breasts. He didn’t smell too sweet either. Personal hygiene doesn’t seem to have been a big thing in the 1950s. I felt like hitting him, hard, but remembering I had to be all teeth and smiles, I had, so far, restrained myself.

He looked up at me as if wondering who the hell I was.

‘If she does all the shorts today, why doesn’t she do the Prettiest Village feature tomorrow?’ asked Marje quickly, lighting a cigarette. You only ever saw this woman through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve booked a photographer but I’ve got a lot on.’

Gordon looked at me again. ‘I suppose so,’ he said grudgingly. ‘If you’ve got other things to do, Marje. I suppose if she makes a mess of it, you can do it on Friday.’

The condescension of the man!

‘Right,’ I said, all brisk and businesslike. ‘What does this involve?’

‘You tell her, Marje,’ said Gordon and went back to his desk.

‘Well, now it’s spring,’ said Marje with a wry glance through the tiny grubby window to the rain outside, ‘it’s time to start our village feature. Simple idea, you know the sort of thing. Go along to one of the prettier villages, lots of lovely pictures and then maybe a few words with the oldest resident, squire, lady of the manor, vicar, that sort of thing. Anything newsworthy or interesting. Gets people buying The News and we might dig up a few stories for the rest of the paper while we’re at it. We’ll make a few contacts at least. You should be all right. The postman reckons it’s going to fair up tomorrow. I was going to start with Middle-ton Parva. You all right with that?’

‘Fine,’ I said. It wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but it was a lot more fun than Princess Margaret’s planned visit to the local regiment. There are worse assignments. ‘But how do I get there?’

‘You can team up with George and take the van. But Charlie’s out with it for most of today. So if you can just sort out some of those short pieces while you’re waiting. Or check in the files on Middleton Parva.’

‘No problem,’ I said, quite looking forward to a day out of the office. With that the door opened and an oldish woman came in carrying a long narrow wooden box full of brown envelopes. Everyone stood around her as she gave them out.

‘Rose Harford?’ she said, looking at me.

‘That’s me.’ And I went up to her, like a child going to Santa.

My present was a brown envelope full of money. I was getting paid for this, what a bonus. £8. 12 s . 6 d . to be precise. In my normal life that would buy a couple of coffees and a sandwich. Here it was meant to provide for a whole week. But judging by what I’d seen of prices, it would buy quite a lot. I put the money carefully away in my purse.