while and trembling at her own temerity.
She’d had a hard life, Edna said. Her name was Sarah; but everybody called her Poor Mrs. Wilmot.
Muriel’s second trip to Buckingham Avenue was more enlightening than the first. She had only been hanging around for five minutes when who should she see, coming up the road with her Saturday shopping, but Miss Florence Sidney?
Miss Sidney had put on weight, and her frizz of hair was now grey. She wore stout shoes, a check skirt, and a woollen scarf with bobbles on it, and she advanced along the street looking neither left nor right. As she passed number 2, going around the corner to her own gate, the front door flew open and a gang of screaming teenage children swarmed down the path and fanned out across the road. Miss Sidney was almost knocked into the hedge. Steadying herself against the gatepost, her face flushed, she called out after the children, “Alistair! For heaven’s sake!”
“Eff off, you old cow,” the boy called Alistair shouted back; wailing and yodelling, the gang careered around the corner into Lauderdale Road.
Miss Sidney put down her basket to recover herself. She steadied her breathing, allowed her flush to subside, and picked a few bits of privet from her cardigan. Looking up, she saw Muriel watching her from the other side of the road. Muriel smiled; there was no one she would rather see pushed into a hedge. Miss Sidney’s eyes passed over her, as if she thought it was rude to stare; it was plain that she had no idea who Muriel was. She gave a half- smile, picked up her shopping, and trotted round the corner.
She doesn’t expect me, Muriel thought. But she ought to expect me.
Muriel fished in her coat pocket, and brought out a piece of newspaper. She unwrapped it as she crossed the road, took out Mrs. Wilmot’s teeth, and tossed them over the hedge into the Sidneys’ front garden.
Just as she was rounding the corner, the front door of number 2 opened again. Colin Sidney came out and loped down the path towards his car; a big fair man, balding, lean and fit. She watched him jump into his car and shoot away from the kerb. He did not even notice her. She raised a hand after him; like someone giving a signal to a hangman.
Mrs. Wilmot was being retired. She had been at the factory for thirty years; today was her last day.
“Course,” she said, in her usual dead little whisper, “I’ll not get my pension, I’m not sixty. Course, I’ll get my benefit. Course, I’ll have to put in for it. Course, I don’t really know.” She picked up a corner of her overall and wiped her left eye.
“It’s a bloody shame,” Edna said. “Ripping’s all she’s got. Here, love, we’ll give you a send-off.”
“Course, they gave me a Teasmaid,” Poor Mrs. Wilmot said. She wiped her other eye and sniffed.
“Bugger the Teasmaid, we’ve got a lovely presentation to give you. We’ll give it you down the pub, it’s Friday night, isn’t it?”
“Course, the pot was broken,” Mrs. Wilmot whimpered. “Course, I didn’t complain.”
“I wish you’d told me,” Edna said, “I’d have complained all right. I don’t know, this place is going down the drain, you can’t leave anything about, people’s teeth being nicked out of their own handbags, they want bloody hanging. You could do with a new set, you should have asked for one, you should get compensation.”
“No point really,” Mrs. Wilmot said dejectedly. “I have to get my cards. I have to go to the office. I don’t like.”
“What do you mean, you don’t like?”
“Going to the office. I don’t like.”
“I’ll get your stuff for you,” Muriel offered.
“Oh, would you?” A tiny hope shone out of Poor Mrs. Wilmot. “Muriel, ask them for my wages as well, lovey.” The next moment her situation overwhelmed her again; she looked away and sniffed, and soon the tears were coursing down her cheeks.
“Off again,” Edna said. “Come on, duck, pull yourself together.”
“Course, you can understand it,” Poor Mrs. Wilmot said. “Course they don’t like me coughing on the tobacco. I appreciate that. Course I do.”
They arrived at the Swan of Avon just after opening time. Edna organised the moving of tables, commandeered extra chairs, and herded them into the Snug. “Let’s have a kitty, girls,” she called. The girls fumbled in their bags and tossed five-pound notes into the centre of the table. “No, not you, love,” Edna said to Poor Mrs. Wilmot. “This is your day, duck. Come on now, wipe your eyes. That’s it, give us a smile. Have a go on the Space Invaders.” She bustled her way to the bar, shouting through an open doorway to some male cronies from the Hogshead who were ordering up their first weekend pints in the public bar.
“Eh up, Edna!” the men shouted; and other badinage. “All girls together, is it, all girls together? Room for one more, is there, room for one more?”
A warm beery miasma drifted over towards the noisy party in the Snug. The weekend free-issue was opened, and soon the air turned blue with smoke. “Give over, you cheeky monkeys,” Edna yelled across the landlord’s head. The men roared back at her. Edna trilled with laughter, waved her arms. Her eyebrows shot up, her face reddened. Muriel watched her from the pub door. Her every gesture was florid, packed with life; her voice was as commanding as the factory hooter.
Muriel came up behind her. “I’ve been to the office for Mrs. Wilmot’s forms.”
“Good lass!” Edna cried. “Have you got them?”
“Yes, and I gave her the wages.”
“Righto then, you can help me carry.” She thrust a tin tray crammed with dazzling drinks into Muriel’s hands. “Here you go.”
“Oh ho, Passion Cocktail,” yelled the men from the Public, crowing in their mirth, and swaying backwards and forwards on the bar rail.
