Time of My Life. Sharon Griffiths

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      ‘The lady from the post office said the pub was run by a cockney, a chap who came here as an evacuee during the war. He must have liked it to stay. No doubt he’ll have a tale to tell. Shall we?’

      ‘A pub will do me fine. We’ll get a drink while we’re there. But which one?’

      There were two pubs on either side of the green. One, the Royal Oak, was low and squat and old-fashioned. It had small windows, and beams that made it look as though it had grown up out of the ground and would return to it given half a chance. The other, the Rising Sun, was a big flash newer sort of place with a car park. It had beams too, but you could tell they weren’t very old. There was a sign in the window. I went closer to read it.

      ‘No Gypsies! No Irish!’ it said.

      I stepped back, shocked.

      ‘Can they really say that?’

      ‘Yes, of course. The fair’s been here recently, that’s what that’s all about. They don’t want gyppos upsetting their posh customers. Is this the pub we want?’

      ‘No, thank heavens. We want the Royal Oak.’

      We went across the green and in through the tiny low door of the pub. It had no signs in its window. Inside there were flagged floors and a small log fire. Two old men, smoking pipes, were playing dominoes. They looked up when we went in, ‘Afternoon,’ they said, and went back to their game.

      Since we’d walked in through the door, I’d been holding my breath. I was waiting for someone to shout at me, or say they couldn’t serve me, accuse me of being a tart. Instead, the cheerful young landlord was saying, ‘Right sir, and what can I get you?’

      ‘Pint of bitter for me please,’ said George.

      ‘And for the lady?’

      I hesitated. I could hardly believe I was actually going to get a drink at last. But I didn’t know what to ask for, what to choose. Apart from the beer pumps, the stock on the shelves looked pretty limited. I could see gin and whisky and lots of bottles of Mackeson and Guinness. An advert on the wall showed flying toucans, watched by some RAF types. ‘Lovely day for a Guinness’ said the slogan. But perhaps not.

      ‘No vodka, I suppose?’ I laughed, as if I were making a joke.

      ‘No, this is Middleton not Moscow, miss.’

      ‘Sorry, I don’t know what to have.’

      ‘She’s American,’ said George in explanation.

      ‘Right darling. Why not have a shandy, a lot of ladies like that. Or a drop of local cider?’

      ‘Cider. That sounds fine. Yes please.’

      He disappeared for a moment and came back with a large enamel jug. He placed a half-pint glass on the counter about a yard away and lifted the jug. Cider poured from it in a long arc and fell, perfectly on target, into the glass. It was neatly done.

      I took a sip. ‘Cheers!’ I said and nearly choked. ‘God this is strong! What’s in it?’

      ‘Apples, mostly,’ said the landlord, ‘and a few dead rats of course.’

      I trusted he was joking, but boy was that cider good. It hit the spot wonderfully. I remembered I’d left my Oxo tin at the office.

      ‘Any food on? Sandwiches?’

      ‘The missus can make you a sandwich if you like. Ham or cheese?’

      We both chose ham and while the missus was making them, I told the landlord why we’d come. He was happy to talk, a good utterer, and he spoke in quotes. Easy peasy George did a nice picture of him leaning on the bar, and by the time the sandwiches came, we’d just about finished, leaving Ray, the landlord, to serve his other customers.

      George and I took our sandwiches – and a second drink – over to a table by the tiny window. The sandwiches were brilliant. Proper thick bread with black crusts, masses of butter (Diet? What diet?) and chunks of delicious home-cooked ham. Real food. But now we were just sitting down and not actually working or talking about work, I noticed George looked a bit uneasy. It took a while to dawn on me that sitting in a bar alone with an older woman was clearly something he wasn’t used to.

      ‘It’s all right George, I won’t eat you.’

      He smiled uneasily and moved a little further away from me.

      ‘Did you like the army, George?’

      ‘It was all right. Once you’d got basic training over. All that bloody, sorry Rose, all that drill and bullsh— all that stuff you had to do.’

      ‘Did you go straight from school?’

      ‘No. I was a messenger on The News. Then I used to help Charlie with the developing and printing and things. I told them that when I got called up and I got to work for the information unit. Which was spot on. I worked with the army photographers, so when I came back Mr Henfield took me on as a proper assistant for Charlie, so I was pretty chuffed really. I think Peggy put in a good word for me.’

      ‘Peggy?’

      ‘Yes, Henfield’s secretary. Oh you know, you’re lodging at her house, aren’t you? She’s nice, isn’t she? She was always nice to me when I was a messenger. Most people just take the mick all the time, but Peggy never did. She was always kind. She always said that there was no reason that I shouldn’t be a photographer. She always makes you think you can do things if you really want to. And she’s got a lovely smile.’

      I have to say this was a completely different view of Peggy from the one I saw. But then I remembered how nice she was with smelly little Janice, and I didn’t say anything. Young George clearly had a bit of a crush on Peggy, and who was I to disillusion him? Anyway, maybe it was just me she didn’t like.

      ‘Do you like it on The News?’

      ‘It’s good, yes. And I like driving the van. I’m going to get a car of my own one day. I’ll have a proper wage soon when I’m twenty-one. Then I can take my mum on outings.’

      ‘Do you still live with your mum then?’

      ‘Yes. Just me and her. Dad copped it at Dunkirk, so it’s been just me and Mum ever since.’

      ‘That must have been hard.’

      ‘No harder than for lots of folk.’ He paused, took a long drink and glanced up and out of the window across at the Rising Sun.

      ‘Looks like Henfield’s popped out for his lunch-time drink. That must be his car. There aren’t that many two-tone Hillman Minxes around here. Maybe he’s meeting one of his floozies.’

      Floozy, what a wonderful word. I thought my grandad was the only one to use it.

      ‘Goes in for floozies, does he?’

      ‘One or two. Another drink?’

      ‘George, you’ve had two. You’ll be over the limit.’

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