Maggie blushed. ‘She will one day, Reg,’ she whispered back. ‘She’s a modern miss, is our Cindy, so don’t give up. You just keep trying.’
‘Let’s light up before we go in. I think you need one for your nerves, Maggie,’ said Reg as he shuffled a packet of Benson and Hedges Gold and handed one to Maggie.
Cindy flicked open the silver lighter Reg had bought for her birthday. ‘She’ll soon cheer up once she’s got a port and lemon inside her, won’t you, Maggie? And here’s my guess: tonight is going to be special, I can just feel it and I haven’t even been to Kathleen to get my tea leaves read. Two port and lemons, please, Reg, as soon as we get in; me and Maggie will go straight to the table. Let’s walk in like we’re Princess Margaret arriving for a night out and show off your lovely coat – I haven’t seen that before.’
Maggie blew her cigarette smoke high into the night air and smiled. ‘Neither had I until this afternoon – I bought it in Blacklers, treated myself, along with the make-up.’
Cindy was delighted. ‘Well, it’s smashing – I’m jealous. And your hair looks lovely, even though I say so myself.’
There was no more time for conversation or sartorial scrutiny because Reg opened the pub door and the wall of noise hit them. The throng at the bar stood three deep and the overhead lights reflected from the pile of hair that was Babs’s, her face shining with perspiration from pulling the tall mahogany pumps to serve a demanding throng of thirsty dockers.
The smell of hops, the smoke from the fire and cigarettes, lit a memory for Maggie of the last time she was in the Anchor, with her husband before he left for the war. Her throat almost closed. Why hadn’t she remembered that before?
‘Aye, aye, queen,’ shouted Reg to Babs, as a sea of male drinkers parted to allow the ladies past. ‘Go on, Cindy, get yourselves settled by the fire, it’s damp out there.’
‘It’s always bleedin’ damp,’ shouted Babs, ‘don’t take your vest off until June, ladies!’
Cindy waved to Babs then whispered, ‘Put a smile on your face, Maggie, you must stop looking as frightened as your cat when Scamp gets into your backyard.’
Maggie tried to smile. ‘I’m not even used to being Maggie,’ she replied, ‘never mind going to the pub. Everyone calls me Mrs Trott and they always have.’
‘Aye, I know,’ said Cindy, ‘and it ages you. What’s more, you let it happen because it made you feel comfortable and safe, didn’t you?’
Maggie smiled. ‘Who are you? Cindy the hairdresser, Dr Cole in disguise or Kathleen telling my fortune?’
Cindy threw back her head and laughed. ‘That’s better, now you’re smiling. Do you know what, I think all those quacks need to learn to be a hairdresser first – you’d be amazed at the things women come out with while they’re sat in my chair. I reckon I can even tell when they are going to get pregnant, though it seems to come as a shock to most of them!’
Maggie was not the least bit surprised; for many, need and survival had long since banished discretion and shame on the four streets.
‘Evening, Cindy – oh, hello, Mrs Trott!’ Babs called across.
One of the men in the crowd shouted, ‘Oh, is it two ladies with you tonight, Reg? Is one not enough?’ The crowd began to laugh and Maggie blushed to the roots of her hair.
Cindy squeezed her arm. ‘Evening, fellas! Well, he’s doing a lot better than any of you,’ Cindy shouted back to the joker, as bold as brass. ‘You can’t even find yourself one and you’ve been trying for ten years that I know of! Remember when you asked me to go out with you and I said, not on your life? I told you that the rumour that I had been blinded by the peroxide was entirely false – and even if I had been as blind as a bat, I still wouldn’t be that desperate that I’d want to go out with you.’
The crowd roared and Maggie found herself laughing with them as the joker looked wounded and then laughed himself. ‘All lies,’ he shouted. ‘I was just after a free haircut.’
A cry went up from the men around the bar, ‘What hair? You don’t have any hair, baldy!’
‘All right, Cindy, you win,’ the joker shouted back, to the odd jeer of, ‘You should never mess with Cindy,’ from the crowd.
Cindy blew them a kiss and she and Maggie pushed through the crowd and found the table that was always waiting for Cindy. None of the men in the pub sat down and only a certain type of woman stood or sat near the bar; respectable women sat at a table. The table was nothing more than an upturned barrel with polished planks balanced on top. Maggie looked around nervously.
‘Oh, look, there’s the Morry’s crew in over by the fire. He’s a good bloke, Captain Conor, Ena never stops talking about him,’ said Cindy. ‘How lucky are people around here that one of their own is the captain of a tramp ship and gets the dockers all the knock-off gear? I swear to God, if it wasn’t for him, half of the kids on this street would go hungry. Ena says the owner knows that he only gets three-quarters of a ship, that the rest is for the streets, and he doesn’t mind. He tells Conor to just make sure there’s no trouble and that he gets the right price for his load.’
‘He’s come just in time,’ said Maggie, ‘because, by all accounts, only the fittest have had a full week in work since January. It’s going to be the most miserable carnival in living memory on the four streets this year.’
Cindy crossed her legs and Maggie
