any good.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘My friends are going to Brighton on Sunday, but I can’t go with them.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos they’re all driving down by car, and can you see me keeping up on my scooter?’
‘Surely one of them could give you a lift?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so, but you don’t know how it feels to be the odd one out. From now on I’ll have to scrounge a lift every time we go somewhere.’
Dolly stood up, exhaling loudly. ‘Kevin, I know how much you want to buy that car, but it’s an awful lot of money, son.’
‘See, I knew you’d say that! I told you to leave it, but you insisted I tell you! What good has it done?’ he cried, bending forward then as though gasping for air. After forcing a wheezing sound and hearing his mother murmuring worriedly, he straightened. ‘It’s that bloody scooter and the dust I inhale that causes these attacks, but forget it, Mum. You can’t afford to buy me the car so that’s that.’ And on that note Kevin reared from the chair, stomping to his bedroom, the door slamming behind him.
Dolly paced back and forth but then, casting a glance behind her, she went into her bedroom and to the dressing table. Tucked in the bottom drawer, from under her underwear she took out her cash box. This was her hidden hoard, money the tax man had no knowledge of, and carefully added to over the years. Taking the notes that Bernie had given her and the key, she opened it, her eyes mentally assessing the contents. Why not? she thought. They weren’t hard up, and if riding that scooter was making Kevin ill, he’d have to have a car.
‘Here you are, love,’ Dolly said, knocking before going into Kevin’s room. Her son had become a stickler for privacy, but it was probably normal at his age.
‘Thanks,’ Kevin cried, jumping up and throwing his arms around her. ‘You’re the best mum in the world.’
Dolly smiled, and touched his face. ‘And you’re the best son.’
‘I’d better get a move on before he sells the car to someone else.’
Kevin released his mother, leaving the room without a backward glance, his face alive with excitement. Good old Mum, she had coughed up, as he knew she would. The radio he’d nicked and stashed in the bottom of his wardrobe wouldn’t have raised more than a pittance, but now he had all the cash he needed.
He rushed through the dining room, totally ignoring Nora as she vigorously swept the floor. In the yard he hopped on his scooter and in no time he was at Larry Mason’s house, relieved to see the Vauxhall parked outside.
‘Is the car still for sale?’ he asked, hiding his anxiety when the man came to the door.
‘Yeah, do you want to have another look at it?’
‘I’ve just been to see a Morris, but I can’t make up my mind between the two. Mind you, the Morris is cheaper.’
‘Huh, you can’t compare a Morris to a Vauxhall Wyvern.’
‘Maybe not, but I ain’t made of money.’
‘Come on, I’ll take you for a spin. It might help you to make up your mind.’
Kevin hid a smile. He knew he was going to buy the Wyvern, but there was no need to let Larry know that. He wasn’t ready to part with two hundred quid and intended to haggle.
‘It runs like a dream,’ the man said as they drove along Falcon Road.
‘The engine sounds all right, but I think I’ll go for the Morris. It’s fifty quid cheaper and I ain’t got money to burn.’
‘How about I knock off twenty-five quid? It’s still a better car, and I can’t go any lower.’
Kevin pursed his lips, pretending to consider the offer, and then said, ‘All right, Larry. I’ll take it off your hands.’
In another hour Kevin was on his way to see some important contacts, his heart thumping. They’d have to take him seriously now. They needed a car, and he had one. And without it, the job would be impossible.
On Saturday, Pearl took her first week’s wages, pleased to find an extra ten shillings. With tips she had made two pounds, thirteen and sixpence. A guinea would have to go to her landlord, but now that she didn’t have to buy much food, art classes were definitely on.
She hugged herself with excitement. Art classes! She could actually go to art classes! Her mind slid back to the orphanage and the one teacher she had liked. Miss Rosen had come to the orphanage during Pearl’s final year, and she’d been inspirational, encouraging her to look at objects in a new way.
‘See the texture of the bricks,’ she would say, ‘feel them, and there’s the sky, Pearl. It isn’t just one shade of blue with clouds like puffs of cotton wool. Look closely – there are far more colours.’
And she had looked, and she had learned, but not enough, not nearly enough. Only three months after Miss Rosen arrived came Pearl’s release, and she was one of the first to leave that year. And that’s how she saw it: release – as though she had spent her whole life up to that moment in prison. Miss Rosen was the only teacher she missed, but she would never forget her art lessons.
Before leaving she’d been told they had found her a job in a laundry, and a place in a hostel, both of which she hated from the first day. The work in the laundry sickened her, making her stomach turn. Her job was to sort out linen from great bags, and check that the laundry mark was in place before sending it on to the washroom. The sheets, from a local psychiatric hospital and an old folk’s home, were often covered in blood, vomit or excrement. She had tried to distance her mind, but it was impossible, and then, after months and months, there came the final straw. A sheet she pulled out was so covered in filth that she had bent double, vomiting on the cold stone floor.
With little money saved, she had left both the job and the hostel. She moved to an area a long way from the orphanage, alighting from the train at Clapham Junction station. Maybe it was luck, maybe she had a guardian angel, but almost immediately she’d seen a card in a newsagent’s window offering a cheap room to let. After asking directions she had made her way to Battersea High Street, enthralled by the busy, bustling market. She had taken the room, and then when almost down to her last penny, providence stepped in again when she found the job in the café.
Pearl jumped as she heard a sudden knock on her door and opened it to see her landlord.
‘Your rent’s due, Miss Button,’ Nobby Clark said.
‘Yes, I’ll get it for you,’ she agreed, hiding her distaste. Her landlord was a greasy-looking young man, with dark, slicked-back hair and a small moustache. But it was his eyes that she hated most; button black and hard, they made her shiver.
He marked the rent book, handed it back, and Pearl was glad to close the door on him. For the rest of the evening she sketched. She attempted Kevin Dolby, but couldn’t
