LITMIR.BIZ

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could.

      ‘Now get down them stairs and get some frigging work done!’ she yelled from behind the door. ‘And I’ve told you before, madam, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!’

      Or a human being out of a witch, Kathleen muttered to herself as she trotted down the stairs, enjoying the feeling of her ponytail swishing from side to side behind her.

      Kathleen was already in place behind the bar before her dad came up to open the front doors, looking out across the sea of neatly arranged chairs and tables, through the sash windows and over the hedges that were threatening to shut the light out, to what little she could see of the bright day beyond. Which was probably all she would see of it, too.

      Still, it being a Wednesday, there wouldn’t be a queue waiting, and the regulars would stroll in in their own time. You could set the clock by most of them, and each had their own drinking pattern. First would come the drunks, with the day stretching ahead of them, because they were all unemployed, then, from twelve till one, the workers, keen to fit in as many pints as they could before returning to their various jobs, then the pub would close for a bit, and it would be back to washing up and cleaning, while her dad went back to the cellar, getting the barrels ready for the evening – and more than likely filtering a gallon or so of water to the ones that were already on, just to eke the profits out that bit further.

      They’d then reopen for the tea-timers. Almost exclusively men, these would be the ones stopping off on their way home, and who’d be rolling home to their wives and kids at about eight, much the worse for wear – or a bit before that, if their wives came looking for them. Then it was the night crowd. The cycle rarely changed. Day in, day out, the same. And Kathleen wondered at the repetitive nature of it all. There should be more to life, shouldn’t there? Perhaps they enjoyed it, but sometimes the thought of standing here, pulling pints, for years and years, filled her with a profound sense of gloom. She could almost see herself, hand gripping a pump, a decaying skeleton, rictus smile still held firmly in place.

      She was shaken from her reverie by the sound of the front door going, and painted on the smile automatically. Because the smile was important. The most important thing about being a barmaid. Her dad had told her that a while after her mum had died, and she’d asked him how he could joke with the punters when all she wanted to do every day was cry. So he’d told her. He’d explained that once you were a grown-up, no matter how sad you were you had to roll your sleeves up and paint a smile on your face when you were working, and do all your crying on the inside.

      It had stayed with her that, and it had been something of a comfort. Where previously she’d thought he hadn’t cared as much as she did, it was a comfort to know he was crying just like she was, even if nobody could see. And now she was seventeen, she did it almost automatically. No matter what was going on in your life – whether it was everything or nothing – you forgot about it and smiled inanely at everyone.

      Her first customer, for instance, who was a middle-aged regular, who’d been hurt in a demolition accident. It had left him with a limp – he was limping across to her now, very obviously – and though he was only in his forties, a face that seemed much older. Which sort of fitted. He was ‘retired’, or so his line usually went, though, according to Irene, who never had a good word to say about anyone, he was just a lazy bastard who didn’t have a good day’s work in him.

      ‘Morning, Jack,’ Kathleen trilled, liking Jack because Irene didn’t. ‘A pint of mild is it?’

      ‘Please, love,’ he said, dragging a bar stool to his favourite spot. ‘No Mary today?’

      ‘No, she’s poorly,’ Kathleen told him, expertly pulling him a nice frothy top. ‘So you have me to put up with today, I’m afraid.’

      Jack grinned. ‘Now’t wrong with that, kid,’ he said, winking at her as he settled on his stool. ‘And mebbe Mary’ll be off a few days yet, eh? Wouldn’t mind that. Have you and that pretty sister of yours serving me any day, I would.’

      Kathleen tried not to grimace, because she knew she should be above that. It wasn’t like he was telling her she was ugly, after all. And Monica was pretty. No doubt about it. Well, when she was tarted up, which she mostly was. Everyone said so. ‘Pretty sister’ tripped off everybody’s tongue. Though not to Monica, she suspected – no, she knew – about her. It was her job to be the plain Jane. The dull presence beside which Monica could more easily shine.

      She wouldn’t normally do it – the smile was all, the smiling attitude very much a part of it – but today she ‘accidentally’ banged Jack’s pint glass into the pump as she passed it across the bar, knocking some of the head off and ensuring it would flatten within minutes. ‘Oh sorry, Jack,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I’m such a clumsy mare.’

      By mid-afternoon, Kathleen was getting face-ache. It was hard trying to look thrilled to bits all the time about being at the beck and call of the punters, and the minutes seemed to be crawling by today. It didn’t help that it was quiet – far too nice a day to be sitting in a smoky bar – but with those that were in were all sitting chatting, full glasses in front of them, at least it meant she could nip out the back for a pee and a quick ciggie, her dad not allowing her to smoke behind the bar – it was either out in the bar or in the toilets.

      She headed out into the foyer. It was Terry Harris, one of the regulars, who was a long-distance lorry driver – a job that, to Kathleen, always sounded so appealing. He must be here at this time because he’d just finished a local job. He was feeding coins into the one-armed bandit, and he turned when he heard her. ‘Alright, lass?’ he asked her.

      Kathleen felt herself colour. She always did when she saw him because he was so ridiculously handsome. To her, anyway. And tragic. He was only young, but already a widower, his wife having died in a house fire a couple of years ago. Everyone felt sorry for him; some of the older ladies would sigh every time he passed. ‘Oh, hello, Terry,’ she said, ‘I’m just nipping out back.’ She gestured. ‘But I can get you a pint first, if you like.’

      He shook his head, and gripped the machine’s arm, curling his long fingers around it. ‘No, love, I’m alright for a bit,’ he told her. ‘You go on.’

      She turned to go, happy to hide her blush, but then he called her back. ‘I’ll wait for you here actually,’ he said. ‘If that’s alright.’ He looked suddenly awkward. ‘Only, there’s summat I wanted to talk to you about.’

      Kathleen left him then, feeling the heat in her face as it collided with the cold air coming from the ladies’ loo. She stood a moment before lighting her Woodbine, looking at her face in the mirror above the sink, wishing she’d put on a bit of make-up, sorted her ponytail out a bit better and just generally looked better. Made that bloody silk purse out of the sow’s ear that was stood in front of her, in its dowdy blouse and skirt.

      She lit her ciggie. She wished she could stop herself blushing at the sight of him, but she never seemed to manage it. It was something she didn’t seem to have any sort of control over. It was a stupid crush – she knew that. He was thirty-three, for God’s sake! – and she fervently hoped now she was seventeen she’d grow out of it. But there was just something. Something about his face, the way he smiled, the way he’d let his wavy hair grow. Be longer than hers soon, she reckoned. She liked that. That and the aura of sadness, despite his smiles. And there was a connection, too. Because Terry worked with her Aunt Sally’s Ronnie, who was his best mate.

      Kathleen took a drag on her cigarette and watched the smoke weave above her. Perhaps that was mostly what she liked about Terry. The tragedy. That he was injured. Mentally scarred. Like a hero out of a book. Because no one else seemed to see in him what she did. Monica certainly didn’t. She’d said he wasn’t much of a looker. But then neither was Mr Rochester, was he? And there was just something about him that always made her heart flutter. It was fluttering all the harder now. What could he possibly want to talk to her about?

      She finished her cigarette, had her pee, washed her hands and hurried out again. Terry was where she’d left him, but now he was staring out towards the road,

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