Page 27

BEFORE

June 1976

Sally

Doddington Estate, Battersea Park Road, London

Sally tried to block out the shouts that drifted in through the open windows. It was impossible to sleep in the dead summer heat without them open, but the noise of the busy council flats made sleep elusive. A deep voice screamed abuse. It was the caretaker, a large, brutish man who had no joy in his life and wanted everyone else to know.

‘No children are allowed to run on the landing. Get them outside or down to the playroom on the ground floor,’ he instructed. ‘Or, by God, I’ll teach them manners.’

In fairness, children had been bounding along the landing all day long. But, like the sound of the trains passing by, Sally had become accustomed to their squeals.

She looked at her watch. It was only ten o’clock. Since returning from her shift at the office block, she’d managed only four hours of sleep. If she had a cup of tea, things might quieten down again on the landing, and then she’d be able to get a few more hours in. Without sleep, she’d be dead on her feet later on and she had plans to go to their local pub, The Grove, with Elsie. It was Saturday, her favourite day of the week, because there was no night work in the office block. She licked her lips at the thought of that cold glass of lager and lime.

Sally got up and walked to the flat window to peek outside. Three young girls were setting themselves up to sunbathe in the concrete courtyard in front of their tower block. They were wearing crochet bikinis, and the sound of Kiki and Elton singing about their broken hearts played in the distance. They swished their long hair and giggled as they lowered themselves into wooden deckchairs.

Sally used to get upset when she witnessed carefree moments like these that she never got to enjoy herself. But she’d learned to harden herself to them over the months. Feeling sorry for yourself didn’t pay the rent. Her stomach lurched once more at the thought. She longed for the day when money, or lack of it, was not an issue.

She was now permanently employed by the cleaning company, and Cyril said she was one of his best workers. The problem was that by the time she’d paid rent, electricity and food, there wasn’t much left – certainly not enough for crochet bikinis in which to lounge around during this heat wave. Sally picked up her handbag and pulled out her purse, spilling its contents onto the table. By the time she’d put aside money for essentials, it left her with ￡5 to spend on incidentals. Sighing, she told herself that she’d make it work. She always did.

They’d had thirteen days in a row of scorching sun. Temperatures had reached as high as thirty-five degrees. The caretaker had issued a directive to all tenants stating that they should save water. Shallow baths all around. And at work last night the gaffer repeated Denis Howell’s words, who was the Minister for Drought – put washing-up water into the toilet as opposed to flushing. This caused much merriment between the charwomen.

While Sally hated cleaning, she loved the camaraderie of the women there. Her muscles had got used to the hard labour, at least. And her favourite part of the day was the hour Elsie and she spent together before they walked to work. Over the last month since they’d reconnected, they reminisced about their time in the orphanage.

Elsie remained tightlipped about what she’d been up to over the past three years. Sally sensed that there was a story there waiting to be revealed. And that life may not have been kind to her friend.

Dressing quickly in her sundress and sandals, the lightest thing she owned, Sally made her way towards the corner shop to buy some fresh bread.

As she passed the girls, who were now singing ‘Save Your Kisses for Me’, in time with the radio, she felt their eyes on her. There was little greenery in Battersea, and what there was had now turned yellow from the heat. A musty smell lingered in the air. Sally smiled brightly at the girls. She promised herself that she’d have a garden to sunbathe in one day.

To her surprise, she noted the corner shop had a large handwritten ‘Closing Down’ sign on the door. She was sorry to see this and said as much to the woman on the till as she counted twenty pence for her bread.

‘We’ve no chance competing against those buggers in the supermarkets,’ the woman replied, shaking her head sadly. ‘Thirty years we’ve had this shop. All the good that did us.’ Then she pointed to the rack of newspapers that sat beside the counter. ‘Did you hear about the ladybirds?’

Sally shook her head.

‘There’s swarms of them. Twenty-three billion, the paper says, on the hunt. Cos, Lord, save us all, the plants and the bugs that eat them are all dead from the heat, and they are starving. My Ernest said that he’d heard they were attacking humans. Trying to drink our sweat.’ She handed Sally one pence change. ‘You take care, love. And, if you see any of those ladybirds, run!’

Stifling a giggle, Sally left the shop. The girls in the orphanage would howl at this kind of thing, with Sister Jones giving them the evil eye while trying not to laugh herself. And Sally felt a pang. She still missed them all. Unlike Elsie, who’d left without a backward glance, Sally thought about them often. Without much thought, she ran to the nearest public phone box. She fed the phone fifty pence, and dialled the number, moving from foot to foot as it rang out.

‘Good morning, Sunshine House Orphanage. How can I help you?’ A Scottish lilt replied.

‘Sister Jones!’ Sally cried out in delight. ‘Hello! It’s me, Sally. I wanted to tell you about the killer ladybirds.’

‘Slow down, child. How anyone is expected to understand a word you say, the speed you speak! What on earth are you gabbling on about? Honestly, I hoped you’d have outgrown your flights of fancy by now!’

Sally felt a rush of warmth for her old warden. ‘Gosh, I miss you telling me off for my nonsense, Sister Jones!’

Sister Jones sighed, and her voice softened. ‘And we miss you too. The house has been quiet without you. Are you doing okay? Are you being a good girl?’

Sally thought about the loneliness of life in the Doddington flats, the monotony of her days and the backbreaking work she did every night. ‘I don’t have much time to be anything but good, Sister. It’s not what I thought it would be,’ she admitted in a small voice.

‘Aye, but life never is, I find,’ Sister Jones said. ‘But you, young lady, are a force to be reckoned with. Life with all its twists and turns is no match for you.’

‘I’m working so hard for a pittance. I barely have enough money to get by.’

‘You’re young and strong. Hard work won’t kill you. But don’t settle, Sally. Your head was always full of dreams. Remember them. Chase them with the same gusto you always had when you sneaked out the door after lights out with Elsie Evans!’

‘I always wondered if you knew about that or not!’ Sally said incredulously.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised what I knew.’ She could hear the smile in Sister Jones’s voice.

‘Elsie and I found each other. She lives near me, you know. We work at the same cleaning firm,’ Sally gushed.

Sister Jones sighed. ‘I’ve worried about Elsie for years. She had her demons . . .’ She paused and left the sentence unfinished. ‘Don’t let her get you into any trouble.’

Before Sally could question Sister Jones any further, the line beeped, signalling the end of their call.

‘I’ve got to go, Sister. Tell the girls I called and said hello, and tell them about the killer ladybirds too.’

‘I will, child.’ The nun cleared her throat and said, ‘And don’t you forget what I said. I believe in you .’ And then the phone went dead.

She believes in me. It made Sally feel giddy and scared all at once. And then her eyes moved across the busy street to the row of shops opposite her.

Three doors down from the corner shop was a hairdressing salon called Elite. She’d passed it by dozens of times. Sally had been inside it once before, when she’d asked them if they had any vacancies, only to be shown the door with a firm no. Under the large Elite sign, in smaller script font, was a sign that read Hair styled by Nicola Page.

Sally’s eyes blurred until the name on the sign changed to that of her own, Sally Fox. It was a nice dream. Pulling her shoulders back, she made her way to the salon. She paused for a beat at the door, reached up, smoothed down her hair and marvelled that she had allowed herself to act on a whim for the second time that day. Her hair was still too short, but without the scissor-happy Housemother on the loose, it now fell past her chin. Sally had been experimenting with different styles, and before she went to bed in the wee hours of this morning she’d placed her hair in rags, which gave it a pretty wave today.

The bell rang on the front door as it opened. Inside, two women were getting their hair styled. One had rollers and sat under a giant hairdryer, reading Cosmopolitan magazine. The other sat in front of a large mirror as the stylist teased her hair into soft waves.

The small salon shop was spotlessly clean. Painted a bright yellow, it had one chair in front of a sink and two chairs in front of tall mirrors. Behind the till, several framed certificates from the London Institute of Beauty Culture hung on the wall.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ the stylist said as she brandished a tall bottle of hairspray like a weapon. ‘Close your eyes,’ she advised the client, and then she began spraying. ‘There you go. That’s rock solid. That won’t move anywhere. Just don’t go standing near any naked flames.’ The two women laughed.

Once money had been exchanged, the stylist turned to Sally. ‘Are you looking for a cut and blowdry?’ She looked at her diary, running her finger down the entries. ‘I’m fully booked all day, but if you don’t mind waiting I can squeeze you in after I’m finished with Carol.’ She nodded towards the woman under the dryer.

‘I’m here because I’d like a job, Ms Page,’ Sally said.

‘You were in here before,’ Nicola said, looking her up and down. ‘I remember you.’

‘That’s correct.’ Sally smiled her brightest smile and crossed her fingers behind her back.

‘I’m sorry. As I told you back then, I can’t afford to take anyone on.’ Nicola shrugged and turned her back to walk away.

‘I’ll work for free!’ Sally blurted out.

This stopped Nicola in her tracks. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I desperately want to learn how to do what you do.’ Sally’s eyes implored the woman to take a chance on her. ‘I already have a job every night cleaning, but I don’t need much sleep. I can do both. I’ll sweep and mop your floors too. All I ask is that you teach me how to be a stylist.’

Nicola regarded her quizzically. ‘Oh my days. That’s a lot of work for you. You’re only a slip of a thing. How do I know that you won’t let me down?’

‘I’m small, but I’m strong. And I’m reliable.’ Sally pointed to the certificates and said, ‘I want to be like you. I want to have my own salon. I want to help make women feel beautiful, like you did with that lady who just left. I saw how she looked at herself in the mirror before she walked out the door. You did that. I want to learn how to do that too.’

Nicola’s face broke out in a smile. Sally guessed she was about her mother’s age, with fine lines dancing around her mouth and eyes. She had glossy brunette hair that hung in a high ponytail.

‘You’ve got something about you – I’ll give you that. Spunky. Tell me more about this cleaning job of yours,’ Nicola said.

‘I work five nights a week, Monday through Friday, cleaning office blocks. I start at seven-thirty each night and get home by five a.m. So I could be at the salon every morning. If you give me a chance, you won’t regret it – I promise you. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll go, no questions asked.’

Nicola drummed her red manicured nails on the Formica top of the tall desk. She was going to say no. But at least Sally had tried. And she’d keep on trying, like Sister Jones had made her promise to do.

‘I open at nine o’clock every day. How on earth can you come in here with no more than three hours of sleep,’ Nicola said, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘Please. I want this. Give me a shot, at least,’ Sally begged.

‘I must need my head tested. On a trial basis, you can work half days from Tuesdays to Saturdays. We’re closed on Mondays. You can start at midday, until four o’clock. That way, my conscience is clear that you’ll at least get a few hours of sleep every night.’

A wide grin broke out on Sally’s face. She could hardly believe her ears.

‘You need to wear something smart. And put some make-up on, for the love of God. You’re too pale. How in this heat you’ve managed to avoid a sun tan, I don’t know,’ Nicola said.

Sally threw her arms round the woman and hugged her tight as she thanked her repeatedly. ‘I won’t let you down – you’ll see. See you on Tuesday!’

Then Sally practically floated home to her flat. As Sister Jones had urged, she’d chased her dreams, and it looked as if she’d finally caught one!