’er. Every woman should ’ave a boyfriend, no matter ’
ow
old she is, no matter if she’s married or not. Why should fellers ’ave all the fun? Women ’ave a lot ter offer, Sun. Don’t you ever ferget that.’
For one brief moment, Sunday felt embarrassed, and she had to lower her eyes. What Bess had said was obviously what Bess herself had always felt. The fact was, Bess was a woman with – a reputation. She loved her husband – yes, that was without doubt. But everyone in ‘the Buildings’ knew about her other life, the life she led down ‘the Dilly’, Piccadilly Circus in the West End, where she had been seen night after night ‘on the game’ outside the Stage Door Canteen, where she was available for any well-paid American serviceman who wanted a good night out. Bess had never confided in Sunday as to why she had to do such a thing, and Sunday had never asked. But the only person who didn’t seem to know what was going on was Bess’s old man, Alf, who was now prematurely retired on account of ill health, and who had always been under the impression that the bread his missus was earning came from all-night work as a receptionist at a posh West End hotel.
Bess was soon aware of Sunday’s discomfort. She crossed to the parlour table, stubbed out her half-finished fag, took out another one from the packet, and quickly lit it. ‘Tell me somefin’, Sun,’ she said, briskly, fag in lips, one elbow resting on her hand. ‘Are yer still a virgin?’
Sunday looked up with a start. If it had been anyone else asking her that sort of question – anyone, even her own mum – she would have exploded. But because it was Bess, she had no hesitation at all in answering. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not.’
Bess paused a moment before continuing. ‘Does that worry yer?’
Sunday looked surprised. ‘No. Why should it?’
‘No reason. Oh, don’t worry, I ’ad my first session when I was a good bit younger than you. It’s all right if yer enjoy it, if yor careful.’ Without realising what she was doing, she went back to the ash-tray and stubbed out her newly lit fag. ‘The only fing is, it’s not worf takin’ chances, Sun. If yer take chances, well—’ For her own reasons, Bess made a point of avoiding Sunday’s look. ‘I don’t ’ave ter tell yer, do I?’
After an odd, brief silence between them, Bess went across to Sunday, and crouched down on the floor beside her. ‘This lot ’round ’ere reckon yor a bit of a wild’un. Wot d’yer reckon, Sun?’
Sunday grinned. ‘If that’s what they think, let them think it.’
Now Bess grinned too. ‘Good fer you, gel,’ she said, taking hold of Sunday’s hands, and clasping them into her own . ‘But look, wot I’ve said to yer before still goes. If yer ever want ter talk ter me about anyfin’ – anyfin’ at all – yer will do so, won’t yer?’
Sunday’s grin broadened at once into a beaming smile. She nodded a very definite yes.
Bess squeezed Sunday’s hands, and also smiled. ‘’Ave a fag,’ she said, taking the packet and offering her one. ‘No. Take the packet,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where
they
came from.’
Chapter 4
Sunday liked to have a good time. That was something she had never denied. It was true what Bess Butler had told her, how a lot of people in ‘the Buildings’ had thought of her as a bit of a ‘wild’un’. But in Sunday’s opinion, it wasn’t her fault. Apart from the fact that she had been brought up by two elderly women instead of her own mum and dad, the war had prevented her from having the freedom to do all the things a girl of her age would like to do. Everything was hard to get – decent clothes, make-up, nice food, lots of little luxuries like eau de cologne, paper and envelopes, even empty milk bottles had to be handed back because there was a shortage of glass, and she was not even allowed to leave the
ow
old she is, no matter if she’s married or not. Why should fellers ’ave all the fun? Women ’ave a lot ter offer, Sun. Don’t you ever ferget that.’
For one brief moment, Sunday felt embarrassed, and she had to lower her eyes. What Bess had said was obviously what Bess herself had always felt. The fact was, Bess was a woman with – a reputation. She loved her husband – yes, that was without doubt. But everyone in ‘the Buildings’ knew about her other life, the life she led down ‘the Dilly’, Piccadilly Circus in the West End, where she had been seen night after night ‘on the game’ outside the Stage Door Canteen, where she was available for any well-paid American serviceman who wanted a good night out. Bess had never confided in Sunday as to why she had to do such a thing, and Sunday had never asked. But the only person who didn’t seem to know what was going on was Bess’s old man, Alf, who was now prematurely retired on account of ill health, and who had always been under the impression that the bread his missus was earning came from all-night work as a receptionist at a posh West End hotel.
Bess was soon aware of Sunday’s discomfort. She crossed to the parlour table, stubbed out her half-finished fag, took out another one from the packet, and quickly lit it. ‘Tell me somefin’, Sun,’ she said, briskly, fag in lips, one elbow resting on her hand. ‘Are yer still a virgin?’
Sunday looked up with a start. If it had been anyone else asking her that sort of question – anyone, even her own mum – she would have exploded. But because it was Bess, she had no hesitation at all in answering. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not.’
Bess paused a moment before continuing. ‘Does that worry yer?’
Sunday looked surprised. ‘No. Why should it?’
‘No reason. Oh, don’t worry, I ’ad my first session when I was a good bit younger than you. It’s all right if yer enjoy it, if yor careful.’ Without realising what she was doing, she went back to the ash-tray and stubbed out her newly lit fag. ‘The only fing is, it’s not worf takin’ chances, Sun. If yer take chances, well—’ For her own reasons, Bess made a point of avoiding Sunday’s look. ‘I don’t ’ave ter tell yer, do I?’
After an odd, brief silence between them, Bess went across to Sunday, and crouched down on the floor beside her. ‘This lot ’round ’ere reckon yor a bit of a wild’un. Wot d’yer reckon, Sun?’
Sunday grinned. ‘If that’s what they think, let them think it.’
Now Bess grinned too. ‘Good fer you, gel,’ she said, taking hold of Sunday’s hands, and clasping them into her own . ‘But look, wot I’ve said to yer before still goes. If yer ever want ter talk ter me about anyfin’ – anyfin’ at all – yer will do so, won’t yer?’
Sunday’s grin broadened at once into a beaming smile. She nodded a very definite yes.
Bess squeezed Sunday’s hands, and also smiled. ‘’Ave a fag,’ she said, taking the packet and offering her one. ‘No. Take the packet,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where
they
came from.’
Chapter 4
Sunday liked to have a good time. That was something she had never denied. It was true what Bess Butler had told her, how a lot of people in ‘the Buildings’ had thought of her as a bit of a ‘wild’un’. But in Sunday’s opinion, it wasn’t her fault. Apart from the fact that she had been brought up by two elderly women instead of her own mum and dad, the war had prevented her from having the freedom to do all the things a girl of her age would like to do. Everything was hard to get – decent clothes, make-up, nice food, lots of little luxuries like eau de cologne, paper and envelopes, even empty milk bottles had to be handed back because there was a shortage of glass, and she was not even allowed to leave the
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