on equal terms with her. The same week a
holiday list was posted up in the main office. Susan Clabon at once put down for the fortnight beginning Saturday 10 September, so I wrote my name in for the following fortnight. She would be due
back on the 26th. I began to work on these dates.
On the Thursday I was alone in the office when Mark Rutland came in. He went to the safe and put some books in, and as he passed on his way out he dropped a ticket on my desk. I stared at
it.
He said: ‘Just in case you’re really interested.’
It was a ticket for the National Rose Society’s show. I looked up at him in real surprise, nothing pretended.
‘Oh, thank you. You shouldn’t have bothered, Mr Rutland.’
‘No bother.’
‘Well, thank you.’
At the door he said: ‘First day’s the best. But then you can hardly get there, can you. They’re still pretty good on Saturday afternoon.’
He’d hardly spoken to me except in the way of business since I came. And after all, nothing could be more innocent than being given a ticket for a flower show.
After he’d gone out I took up a compact and powdered my nose. I exchanged a look with myself in the mirror. I was imagining things.
The only rose I had ever had was the dusty rambler that bloomed every year in the back yard at Plymouth; but it always got smothered with greenfly and fizzled out. It used to
make me wonder about that song, ‘Roses of Picardy’ and why anyone should bother to go nasal and wet-eyed about a plant as feeble as the rose I knew. I’ve never had any room for
things that gave in without a struggle.
Not that ‘Roses of Picardy’ didn’t mean something special to me. One day I’d been watching some men clearing a bombed site in Union Street when they found an old portable
gramophone buried in the rubble. They turned it over and laughed, and one of them said: ‘Yur, ducky, you ’ave it.’ I went scuttling home with it and found it still worked, but the
only unbroken record in the bottom shelf was ‘Roses of Picardy’ sung by some Irish tenor with adenoids or something. For three years after that I couldn’t afford to buy any
others, so I just played that and played it until it was worn out.
I used to come home from school at half past four. Mother and Lucy would be out at work still, and Mother used to leave a paper with the things she wanted, and I’d go shopping. Then
I’d get the tea ready, which was usually ham and chips, or kippers, with bread and butter, in time for when they got home about half past six. Always I’d play ‘Roses of
Picardy’ over and over because it was the only tune I had.
Sundays were sombre because they were all church; but Saturdays, with Mother and Lucy at work, I was free most of the day. Of course it was my job to clean the rooms, but I’d fly through
this and be ready to join the others by about ten. We’d go mooching around Plymouth and watch the bulldozers and the builders at work; then when they stopped we’d wriggle under a gate
and scavenge around on the site seeing what we could pick up. Sometimes we’d lift off the bricks that hadn’t set and bury the spades and fill the cement mixer with stones. Later
we’d walk round the stores, or go into one of the pin-table arcades or find some boys and stand at a corner giggling, or we’d climb up by the railway and throw stones at the trains.
One Saturday, in the February that I was fourteen, I’d been out all day with a pimply girl called June Tredawl, whose mother was doing three months; there’d been these two other
girls with us but we’d split up, and all afternoon June and I had been hanging around looking for trouble.
It was a cold day, I remember, with a frosty look, and when we went on the Hoe the sea was grey as a skating rink. We wandered about for a time, kicking our cheap shoes together to keep our feet
warm, and talking about all the things we’d like to do if we had money. When we came to the car park we looked over
holiday list was posted up in the main office. Susan Clabon at once put down for the fortnight beginning Saturday 10 September, so I wrote my name in for the following fortnight. She would be due
back on the 26th. I began to work on these dates.
On the Thursday I was alone in the office when Mark Rutland came in. He went to the safe and put some books in, and as he passed on his way out he dropped a ticket on my desk. I stared at
it.
He said: ‘Just in case you’re really interested.’
It was a ticket for the National Rose Society’s show. I looked up at him in real surprise, nothing pretended.
‘Oh, thank you. You shouldn’t have bothered, Mr Rutland.’
‘No bother.’
‘Well, thank you.’
At the door he said: ‘First day’s the best. But then you can hardly get there, can you. They’re still pretty good on Saturday afternoon.’
He’d hardly spoken to me except in the way of business since I came. And after all, nothing could be more innocent than being given a ticket for a flower show.
After he’d gone out I took up a compact and powdered my nose. I exchanged a look with myself in the mirror. I was imagining things.
The only rose I had ever had was the dusty rambler that bloomed every year in the back yard at Plymouth; but it always got smothered with greenfly and fizzled out. It used to
make me wonder about that song, ‘Roses of Picardy’ and why anyone should bother to go nasal and wet-eyed about a plant as feeble as the rose I knew. I’ve never had any room for
things that gave in without a struggle.
Not that ‘Roses of Picardy’ didn’t mean something special to me. One day I’d been watching some men clearing a bombed site in Union Street when they found an old portable
gramophone buried in the rubble. They turned it over and laughed, and one of them said: ‘Yur, ducky, you ’ave it.’ I went scuttling home with it and found it still worked, but the
only unbroken record in the bottom shelf was ‘Roses of Picardy’ sung by some Irish tenor with adenoids or something. For three years after that I couldn’t afford to buy any
others, so I just played that and played it until it was worn out.
I used to come home from school at half past four. Mother and Lucy would be out at work still, and Mother used to leave a paper with the things she wanted, and I’d go shopping. Then
I’d get the tea ready, which was usually ham and chips, or kippers, with bread and butter, in time for when they got home about half past six. Always I’d play ‘Roses of
Picardy’ over and over because it was the only tune I had.
Sundays were sombre because they were all church; but Saturdays, with Mother and Lucy at work, I was free most of the day. Of course it was my job to clean the rooms, but I’d fly through
this and be ready to join the others by about ten. We’d go mooching around Plymouth and watch the bulldozers and the builders at work; then when they stopped we’d wriggle under a gate
and scavenge around on the site seeing what we could pick up. Sometimes we’d lift off the bricks that hadn’t set and bury the spades and fill the cement mixer with stones. Later
we’d walk round the stores, or go into one of the pin-table arcades or find some boys and stand at a corner giggling, or we’d climb up by the railway and throw stones at the trains.
One Saturday, in the February that I was fourteen, I’d been out all day with a pimply girl called June Tredawl, whose mother was doing three months; there’d been these two other
girls with us but we’d split up, and all afternoon June and I had been hanging around looking for trouble.
It was a cold day, I remember, with a frosty look, and when we went on the Hoe the sea was grey as a skating rink. We wandered about for a time, kicking our cheap shoes together to keep our feet
warm, and talking about all the things we’d like to do if we had money. When we came to the car park we looked over
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