sat in the most comfortable of the utility armchairs. ‘Weren’t you bored out of your mind?’
Bess, who had kicked off her shoes and had her legs curled up on the sparse utility sofa, replied, ‘Let me tell yer somefin’, Sun. I don’t believe in knockin’ the old Glory Brigade. At least they’re good an’ ’onest – they care about people. Which is more than yer can say about some of the shit in these “Buildin’s”.’ She picked up an already open packet of American cigarettes from the floor beside her, and offered one to Sunday. ‘Fag? Oh no, I fergot – yer don’t, do yer?’
To Bess’s surprise, Sunday stretched across and helped herself to a cigarette.
Bess shook the pack until she was able to take out one of the cigarettes with her lips. ‘I remember ’ow they looked after everyone durin’ the Blitz. Bloody saints they was, servin’ up tea to firemen and injured people wiv bombs droppin’ all ’round ’em, sayin’ prayers over dead people , singing hymns to cheer people up. No, mate. Bess Butler don’t knock people like that.’
The more Sunday knew Bess, the more she liked her. Most important of all, she respected her. Although Bess was over twenty years older than herself, she felt a great affinity with her. When she was in her company she felt relaxed, and able to talk about the things that worried her. Bess also had the knack of making her feel that she wasn’t just a seventeen-year-old kid, but a young woman with a mind and feelings of her own.
‘Your mum’s like that, yer know. A good person – right down to ’er bones.’
Bess leaned across to light Sunday’s fag, but smiled a bit when the smoke made the girl cough. ‘’Ow’s the old gel gettin’ on?’ she asked.
Sunday shrugged her shoulders, and quickly tried to inhale another mouthful of smoke.
‘Wos up?’
Sunday, unsuccessful in her attempts to inhale the smoke into her lungs, looked across at Bess. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘Come on, Sun. I weren’t born yesterday, yer know.’
From the floor at her side, Sunday picked up the cup of tea that Bess had made. There was no saucer. Bess didn’t believe in such etiquette.
‘Bess,’ said Sunday, leaning back in her chair, her eyes staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. ‘D’you think my mum’s too old to have a boyfriend?’
Now it was Bess’s turn to cough out some fag smoke. ‘Say that again.’
Sunday swung back to look at her friend. ‘I’m not joking, Bess.’
Bess took her legs off the sofa, and turned to face Sunday. ‘Is yer mum too old ter ’ave a boyfriend?’ she repeated in a high-pitched voice. ‘Who told yer
that
, may I ask?’
‘Aunt Louie.’
Bess suddenly let rip with a fag-filled chesty laugh that was loud enough to wake up a dead man, let alone all the neighbours. ‘Good old Louie!’ she bellowed. ‘Never fails ter come up wiv somefin’ new!’
For a moment, Sunday just watched her friend as she rocked to and fro with laughter. She liked Bess too much to care whether she was taking the piss out of her. Besides, she admired this woman
so
much. For her age, she was such a good-looking woman, and even though she wore too much make-up, she had a wonderful milk-white complexion, blue eyes, and a full bust that needed very little help from a bra. Sunday knew, of course, that Bess’s hair was dyed dark brown, but as she had never seen the original colour, she had no idea what it actually was.
Bess gradually stopped laughing, and fixed her young friend with an affectionate smile. ‘’Ow old are yer now, Sun?’
Sunday hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Seventeen.’
‘Seventeen! God – are yer really? It don’t seem possible.’
Bess picked up her own cup of tea from the floor, got up from the sofa, and walked across the room to the window. As soon as she got there, she swung around to look at Sunday. ‘Don’t be a nark, Sun,’ she said, firmly. ‘If yer mum
’as
got a boyfriend, then good luck to
Bess, who had kicked off her shoes and had her legs curled up on the sparse utility sofa, replied, ‘Let me tell yer somefin’, Sun. I don’t believe in knockin’ the old Glory Brigade. At least they’re good an’ ’onest – they care about people. Which is more than yer can say about some of the shit in these “Buildin’s”.’ She picked up an already open packet of American cigarettes from the floor beside her, and offered one to Sunday. ‘Fag? Oh no, I fergot – yer don’t, do yer?’
To Bess’s surprise, Sunday stretched across and helped herself to a cigarette.
Bess shook the pack until she was able to take out one of the cigarettes with her lips. ‘I remember ’ow they looked after everyone durin’ the Blitz. Bloody saints they was, servin’ up tea to firemen and injured people wiv bombs droppin’ all ’round ’em, sayin’ prayers over dead people , singing hymns to cheer people up. No, mate. Bess Butler don’t knock people like that.’
The more Sunday knew Bess, the more she liked her. Most important of all, she respected her. Although Bess was over twenty years older than herself, she felt a great affinity with her. When she was in her company she felt relaxed, and able to talk about the things that worried her. Bess also had the knack of making her feel that she wasn’t just a seventeen-year-old kid, but a young woman with a mind and feelings of her own.
‘Your mum’s like that, yer know. A good person – right down to ’er bones.’
Bess leaned across to light Sunday’s fag, but smiled a bit when the smoke made the girl cough. ‘’Ow’s the old gel gettin’ on?’ she asked.
Sunday shrugged her shoulders, and quickly tried to inhale another mouthful of smoke.
‘Wos up?’
Sunday, unsuccessful in her attempts to inhale the smoke into her lungs, looked across at Bess. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘Come on, Sun. I weren’t born yesterday, yer know.’
From the floor at her side, Sunday picked up the cup of tea that Bess had made. There was no saucer. Bess didn’t believe in such etiquette.
‘Bess,’ said Sunday, leaning back in her chair, her eyes staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. ‘D’you think my mum’s too old to have a boyfriend?’
Now it was Bess’s turn to cough out some fag smoke. ‘Say that again.’
Sunday swung back to look at her friend. ‘I’m not joking, Bess.’
Bess took her legs off the sofa, and turned to face Sunday. ‘Is yer mum too old ter ’ave a boyfriend?’ she repeated in a high-pitched voice. ‘Who told yer
that
, may I ask?’
‘Aunt Louie.’
Bess suddenly let rip with a fag-filled chesty laugh that was loud enough to wake up a dead man, let alone all the neighbours. ‘Good old Louie!’ she bellowed. ‘Never fails ter come up wiv somefin’ new!’
For a moment, Sunday just watched her friend as she rocked to and fro with laughter. She liked Bess too much to care whether she was taking the piss out of her. Besides, she admired this woman
so
much. For her age, she was such a good-looking woman, and even though she wore too much make-up, she had a wonderful milk-white complexion, blue eyes, and a full bust that needed very little help from a bra. Sunday knew, of course, that Bess’s hair was dyed dark brown, but as she had never seen the original colour, she had no idea what it actually was.
Bess gradually stopped laughing, and fixed her young friend with an affectionate smile. ‘’Ow old are yer now, Sun?’
Sunday hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Seventeen.’
‘Seventeen! God – are yer really? It don’t seem possible.’
Bess picked up her own cup of tea from the floor, got up from the sofa, and walked across the room to the window. As soon as she got there, she swung around to look at Sunday. ‘Don’t be a nark, Sun,’ she said, firmly. ‘If yer mum
’as
got a boyfriend, then good luck to
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