In east London, Peggy Temper woke with a thumping head on her. She was an hour late for set-up, had spent most of it over the sink looking for a memory of the night before. The chatter of draymen outside the window and she pulled back the curtain and was dazzled by sunlight. She watched Col offload barrels of ale and he glanced up at her window and she darted back but he saw her, she knew he did.
She went to the mirror and groaned. She wet her fingers and tried to encourage a curl here, a curl there before setting it in a haze of lacquer. A quick flannel wash and a spritz of perfume got her back into clothes and she smoked half a fag to clear her head.
She staggered down the stairs and put the place on edge. In the bar, she said, Don’t say a fucking word, Col, and he didn’t and pushed a neat gin her way. Ta, she said and downed it in one. Oh Christ, she said, and Col kicked the mop bucket her way.
She was a liability, but a good-looking one at least. Her face and gob brought the soldiers in, and even puking her guts up, she did it with style. Her arse bucked at each spasm and offered a sweet glimpse of stocking. Col felt the nudge of an erection push against his Y-fronts. He went down to the cellar to get a bottle of rum. When he came up, she was glass in hand at the optics.
Hair of the dog?
Hair of the dog, she thought; she’d need the whole bleedin’ pelt to get moving this morning. What the fuck was she thinking?
Take it out of me tips, she said and she sat down and lit a cigarette.
He came over and joined her. Good night? he said. She looked at him and laughed.
No one like you, Peggy, he said, and she smiled that smile and the bluebirds sang.
Col? （Oh Christ, what now? That face of hers …）
What, Peg?
This Saturday.
No way, Peg.
I know, I know, but this one’s important.
They’re all important, and Col downed his drink and got up. He said, You’ve got resilience, I’ll say that for you.
That’s a good thing, right?
And Peggy stood up and started to dance in front of him. That’s a good thing, right, Col?
Come on Peg, we’re open. And mind you don’t step on that bloody mess you’re dragging around you.
Peggy stopped and looked behind her. What mess? she said.
Your liver. Now open the bleedin’ door.
The warm morning air sauntered in, bringing with it the stink of brick dust and tarmacadam. Ginny Formiloe, Col’s kid, was coming back from the baker’s holding a loaf of bread tight against her chest like a baby. Ginny waved at her. Peg waved back. Ginny loved Peg, told her that every morning with her funny nasal voice. Ginny was a woman in body and a child in mind. She collected glasses in the pub and sometimes poured a pint, but mostly it was the glasses and the counting out of coins at the end of the night. Sweet, sweet kid, with her strange brain and her mother’s legs and her pretty floral dress. She looked a lot like Col’s wife, and that used to break Col’s heart in the early days. Ginny wasn’t born with the clocks turned back, but something happened, probably that fever when she nearly died. Col’s wife left because of his drinking but really it was because of something else and she got out long before war started. Went up to Scotland to the Outer Hebrides to her sister who farmed. No one said what they really thought, because how bad could it have been to have ended up on a granite rock in the North Atlantic?
Col never did stop drinking when his wife left, but he cut back. Besides, around his daughter his anger turned to mush. He became a soppy drunk, all patriotic songs and teary eyes, because it was just his way.
Ginny stopped at the kerb. She looked left looked right looked left looked right before she crossed. Peggy! she screamed. Peggy opened her arms, and Ginny ran into them. Love you Peggy, she said. Ginny had a strong whiff of the monthlies about her and Peg said, Come on, Ginny, let’s go get you changed.
By the end of the afternoon, Peg was dead on her feet. The pub had turned into a morgue and she took her break outside. She looked up and down the street with its bleached front steps and enough gossip to fill a sewer. She plonked herself down on a chair and faced the sun. Kids as young as eight cycling by and whistling, All right Peg! She raised her arm. Yeah all right, kid, she mimicked. She’d not long closed her eyes when Old Cress came by. She knew it was him blocking the sun, trying to get her attention. Cress was Peg’s rock. Always had been, always would be. He thought her the most beautiful woman alive and he’d do anything for her. Even give her the moon, if he could. （And what would I do with the moon, Cress? Exchange it for the sun. Think big, girl.） You get home all right? he said.