Flo.” With a swagger, he was gone.
“Tara,” Flo whispered. Her legs felt weak and her heart was thumping madly.
“Who was that?” Josie called eagerly. “Jaysus, he could have me for sixpence!”
Before Flo could reply, Olive Knott shouted, “His name’s Tommy O’Mara. He lives in the next street to us, and before you young “uns get too excited, you might like to know he’s well and truly married.”
Flo’s thumping heart sank to her boots. Married!
Mr Fritz came out of the office to ask what all the fuss was about.
“We’ve just had Franchot Tone, Clark Gable and Ronald Colman all rolled into one asking if we did dry-cleaning,”
Olive said cuttingly.
“Why, Flo, you’ve gone all pink.” Mr Fritz beamed at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles. He was a plump, comfortable little man with a round face and lots of frizzy brown hair. He was wearing a brown coat overall, which meant he was about to go out in the van to deliver clean laundry and collect dirty items in return.
Olive, who’d been there the longest and was vaguely considered next in command, would take over the office and answer the telephone.
“I didn’t mean to,” Flo said stupidly.
“It must be nice to be young and impressionable.” He sighed gloomily, as if he already had one foot in the grave though he wasn’t quite forty. For some reason, Mr Fritz was forever trying to make out he was dead miserable, when everyone knew he was the happiest man alive and the nicest, kindest employer in the whole wide world. His surname was Austrian, a bit of a mouthful and difficult to spell, so everyone called him by his first name, Fritz, and referred to his equally plump little Irish wife, Stella, as Mrs Fritz, and their eight children—three girls and five boys—as the little Fritzes.
He departed, and the women returned to their work, happy in the knowledge that on Tuesdays he called at Sinclair’s, the confectioner’s, to collect the overalls and would bring them back a cream cake each.
Try as she might, Flo was unable to get Tommy O’Mara out of her mind. Twice before, she’d thought she was in love, the first time with Frank McGee, then Kevin Kelly—she’d actually let Kevin kiss her on the way home from the Rialto where they’d been to a St Patrick’s Day dance—but the feelings she had for them paled to nothing when she thought about the man who’d looked at her so boldly. Was it possible she was properly in love with someone she’d exchanged scarcely more than half a dozen words with?
When they were having their tea that night Martha asked sharply, “What’s the matter with you?”
Flo emerged from the daydream in which an unmarried Tommy O’Mara had just proposed. “Nowt!” she answered, just as sharply.
“I’ve asked three times if you want pudding. It’s apple pie.”
“For goodness sake, Martha, leave the girl alone.” Mam was having one of her good days, which meant she resented Martha acting as if she owned the place. At other times she was too worn out and listless to open her mouth. More and more often, Flo found her in bed when she arrived home from work. Mam patted her youngest daughter’s arm. “She was in a lovely little world of her own, weren’t you, luv? I could tell. Your eyes were sparkling as if you were thinking of something dead nice.”
“I was so.” Flo stuck out her tongue at Martha as she disappeared into the back kitchen.
“Can I borrow your pink frock tonight, Flo?” Sally enquired. “I’m going to the Grand with Brian Maloney.”
“Isn’t he a Protestant?” Martha shouted from the kitchen.
“I’ve no idea,” Sally yelled back.
Martha appeared, grim-faced, in the doorway. “I’d sooner you didn’t go out with Protestants, Sal.”
“It’s none of your bloody business,” Flo said indignantly.
Mam shook her head. “Don’t swear, luv.”
Sally wriggled uncomfortably in the chair. “We’re only going to the pictures.”
“You can never tell how
“Tara,” Flo whispered. Her legs felt weak and her heart was thumping madly.
“Who was that?” Josie called eagerly. “Jaysus, he could have me for sixpence!”
Before Flo could reply, Olive Knott shouted, “His name’s Tommy O’Mara. He lives in the next street to us, and before you young “uns get too excited, you might like to know he’s well and truly married.”
Flo’s thumping heart sank to her boots. Married!
Mr Fritz came out of the office to ask what all the fuss was about.
“We’ve just had Franchot Tone, Clark Gable and Ronald Colman all rolled into one asking if we did dry-cleaning,”
Olive said cuttingly.
“Why, Flo, you’ve gone all pink.” Mr Fritz beamed at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles. He was a plump, comfortable little man with a round face and lots of frizzy brown hair. He was wearing a brown coat overall, which meant he was about to go out in the van to deliver clean laundry and collect dirty items in return.
Olive, who’d been there the longest and was vaguely considered next in command, would take over the office and answer the telephone.
“I didn’t mean to,” Flo said stupidly.
“It must be nice to be young and impressionable.” He sighed gloomily, as if he already had one foot in the grave though he wasn’t quite forty. For some reason, Mr Fritz was forever trying to make out he was dead miserable, when everyone knew he was the happiest man alive and the nicest, kindest employer in the whole wide world. His surname was Austrian, a bit of a mouthful and difficult to spell, so everyone called him by his first name, Fritz, and referred to his equally plump little Irish wife, Stella, as Mrs Fritz, and their eight children—three girls and five boys—as the little Fritzes.
He departed, and the women returned to their work, happy in the knowledge that on Tuesdays he called at Sinclair’s, the confectioner’s, to collect the overalls and would bring them back a cream cake each.
Try as she might, Flo was unable to get Tommy O’Mara out of her mind. Twice before, she’d thought she was in love, the first time with Frank McGee, then Kevin Kelly—she’d actually let Kevin kiss her on the way home from the Rialto where they’d been to a St Patrick’s Day dance—but the feelings she had for them paled to nothing when she thought about the man who’d looked at her so boldly. Was it possible she was properly in love with someone she’d exchanged scarcely more than half a dozen words with?
When they were having their tea that night Martha asked sharply, “What’s the matter with you?”
Flo emerged from the daydream in which an unmarried Tommy O’Mara had just proposed. “Nowt!” she answered, just as sharply.
“I’ve asked three times if you want pudding. It’s apple pie.”
“For goodness sake, Martha, leave the girl alone.” Mam was having one of her good days, which meant she resented Martha acting as if she owned the place. At other times she was too worn out and listless to open her mouth. More and more often, Flo found her in bed when she arrived home from work. Mam patted her youngest daughter’s arm. “She was in a lovely little world of her own, weren’t you, luv? I could tell. Your eyes were sparkling as if you were thinking of something dead nice.”
“I was so.” Flo stuck out her tongue at Martha as she disappeared into the back kitchen.
“Can I borrow your pink frock tonight, Flo?” Sally enquired. “I’m going to the Grand with Brian Maloney.”
“Isn’t he a Protestant?” Martha shouted from the kitchen.
“I’ve no idea,” Sally yelled back.
Martha appeared, grim-faced, in the doorway. “I’d sooner you didn’t go out with Protestants, Sal.”
“It’s none of your bloody business,” Flo said indignantly.
Mam shook her head. “Don’t swear, luv.”
Sally wriggled uncomfortably in the chair. “We’re only going to the pictures.”
“You can never tell how
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