black.
Closing time meant her customers had to go. It didn’t mean her day was done—nowhere near. She had to clean off the bar and the tables. She had to empty the ashtrays. Why was it that so many people who drank hard smoked hard, too? She’d never got the habit herself. She thought it was nasty, in fact. Nasty or not, with so many puffing away in there, she might have been smoking a packet a day. And nothing was more disgusting than the stink of stale tobacco ashes.
Once she got rid of those and the rest of the rubbish, she washed and dried the pint mugs and the smaller glasses that held stronger brew. The Americans said a British pint was bigger than one of theirs—not that they complained about the difference when they were pouring down her best bitter. But it bothered her. Shouldn’t a measure with the same name on both sides of the Atlantic also be the same size?
She was low on potato crisps. She’d have to get more before she opened tomorrow. Potatoes, thank heaven, weren’t rationed. Too many things still were, all these years after the war ended. England might have been one of the winners, but she’d beggared herself in the process. France was better off these days, and France had packed it in straightaway. From things Daisy heard, even the western part of Germany was better off. That seemed bitterly unfair.
Not that she could do anything about it, regardless of whether the damned Germans ate caviar for breakfast and beefsteak for supper every day. By the way the airmen talked, the bloody Germans were liable to get theirs pretty soon.
By the way the airmen talked, the whole world was liable to get its pretty soon. And even a place like Fakenham, far from any big city, could get its along with the rest of the world. The Nazis hadn’t bothered it; the only industry in town worth mentioning was printing.
But Fakenham lay much too close to Sculthorpe. Some of the planes that flew out of the base there were B-29s: bombers that could carry a deadly payload all the way to Russia. Daisy had no idea whether the Russians knew that. If they did, though, they would want to find ways to keep it from happening. She was no general, but she could see that.
Daisy yawned. What she couldn’t see right this minute was straight. She’d either fall asleep here, next to the gleaming glassware, or she’d go upstairs to the flat over the pub and do it somewhere a little more comfortable. Upstairs won, though the weary trudge felt a lot longer than it really was.
The sun had risen when she sat bolt upright in bed, but it was much too early. “Bloody hell!” she said, even if no one was there to hear her swear. “I forgot to clean the stinking toilets!”
They would be stinking, too. Beer made men piss more and aim less. She didn’t think anybody’d puked the night before—no one had complained about it. The job would be bad enough anyhow. She could see why she’d forgotten about it. It was nothing anybody would want to remember.
Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t have to do it, even before she brewed her first cuppa and grilled a bloater for breakfast. Those were part of today’s business. The toilets still belonged to yesterday’s, so they came first.
Sighing, she went downstairs and into that dark, smelly little room to do what wanted doing. The toilets were an afterthought in the pub, put in when indoor plumbing came to Fakenham some time late in Queen Victoria’s reign. It would have been Tom’s granddad or great-granddad who added them, and he cost himself no more space than he could help. When things were busy, as they had been last night, that made crowding and messes worse.
Afterwards, Daisy wished she could scrub her hands with steel wool. Washing them like Lady Macbeth was the next best thing. She did that every night after cleaning the toilets. Because she did, her hands were red and rough all the time in spite of the creams and lotions she rubbed in.
No matter how tired she got, she was still
Closing time meant her customers had to go. It didn’t mean her day was done—nowhere near. She had to clean off the bar and the tables. She had to empty the ashtrays. Why was it that so many people who drank hard smoked hard, too? She’d never got the habit herself. She thought it was nasty, in fact. Nasty or not, with so many puffing away in there, she might have been smoking a packet a day. And nothing was more disgusting than the stink of stale tobacco ashes.
Once she got rid of those and the rest of the rubbish, she washed and dried the pint mugs and the smaller glasses that held stronger brew. The Americans said a British pint was bigger than one of theirs—not that they complained about the difference when they were pouring down her best bitter. But it bothered her. Shouldn’t a measure with the same name on both sides of the Atlantic also be the same size?
She was low on potato crisps. She’d have to get more before she opened tomorrow. Potatoes, thank heaven, weren’t rationed. Too many things still were, all these years after the war ended. England might have been one of the winners, but she’d beggared herself in the process. France was better off these days, and France had packed it in straightaway. From things Daisy heard, even the western part of Germany was better off. That seemed bitterly unfair.
Not that she could do anything about it, regardless of whether the damned Germans ate caviar for breakfast and beefsteak for supper every day. By the way the airmen talked, the bloody Germans were liable to get theirs pretty soon.
By the way the airmen talked, the whole world was liable to get its pretty soon. And even a place like Fakenham, far from any big city, could get its along with the rest of the world. The Nazis hadn’t bothered it; the only industry in town worth mentioning was printing.
But Fakenham lay much too close to Sculthorpe. Some of the planes that flew out of the base there were B-29s: bombers that could carry a deadly payload all the way to Russia. Daisy had no idea whether the Russians knew that. If they did, though, they would want to find ways to keep it from happening. She was no general, but she could see that.
Daisy yawned. What she couldn’t see right this minute was straight. She’d either fall asleep here, next to the gleaming glassware, or she’d go upstairs to the flat over the pub and do it somewhere a little more comfortable. Upstairs won, though the weary trudge felt a lot longer than it really was.
The sun had risen when she sat bolt upright in bed, but it was much too early. “Bloody hell!” she said, even if no one was there to hear her swear. “I forgot to clean the stinking toilets!”
They would be stinking, too. Beer made men piss more and aim less. She didn’t think anybody’d puked the night before—no one had complained about it. The job would be bad enough anyhow. She could see why she’d forgotten about it. It was nothing anybody would want to remember.
Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t have to do it, even before she brewed her first cuppa and grilled a bloater for breakfast. Those were part of today’s business. The toilets still belonged to yesterday’s, so they came first.
Sighing, she went downstairs and into that dark, smelly little room to do what wanted doing. The toilets were an afterthought in the pub, put in when indoor plumbing came to Fakenham some time late in Queen Victoria’s reign. It would have been Tom’s granddad or great-granddad who added them, and he cost himself no more space than he could help. When things were busy, as they had been last night, that made crowding and messes worse.
Afterwards, Daisy wished she could scrub her hands with steel wool. Washing them like Lady Macbeth was the next best thing. She did that every night after cleaning the toilets. Because she did, her hands were red and rough all the time in spite of the creams and lotions she rubbed in.
No matter how tired she got, she was still
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