Time of My Life. Sharon Griffiths
‘Men only? That’s illegal!’
‘No it isn’t, miss. This has always been a men-only bar. You’ll have to go.’
‘You can’t have bars that are just for men!’
‘Yes you can, miss. And this is one of them. Will you go now, please.’ He made a move as though he were going to lift the counter flap and come around and chase me off.
What else could I do? With my face bright red I left, making my way past all the little tables, while some of the men still laughed. Horrid. Horrid. Hateful. Another test. I tried not to let it worry me. I pushed my way out and in the corridor opposite I saw a door marked Lounge Bar. That would be all right. I walked in, trying to calm myself down.
This room looked much nicer. Comfortable chairs, horse brasses, a log fire and an air of quiet calm. And there was a woman here – a middle-aged couple were sitting in one of the corners beneath a picture of a hunting scene. I’d be all right here. I walked up to the bar and perched on one of the stools. There was a different barman, older. He was wiping glasses.
‘A large vodka and cranberry juice please.’
He carried on wiping glasses.
I waited for a moment. I was still getting myself calmed down from the other bar. But then the barman stopped wiping glasses and started stacking bottles on the shelf.
‘Excuse me,’ I said in my Like-I’m-here-can’t-you-see-me? sort of voice. ‘Could I have a vodka and cranberry juice please?’
This time he did at least bother to look up. He put his hands on the counter and looked around the room, towards the door.
‘You on your own, madam?’
‘Yes and I’d like a large vodka and cranberry juice please.’
He looked at me, not particularly pleasantly.
‘Two things, madam,’ he said. ‘First, we haven’t got any Russian drinks. And second, we don’t serve unaccompanied ladies, madam. I’m sure you understand why.’
I was gobsmacked.
‘No I don’t actually. I haven’t a bloody clue.’
‘Language, madam, please. I can’t serve you and I must ask you to leave.’
I looked towards the middle-aged couple, thinking they’d be sympathetic and help me out here. But they were suddenly intent on the pattern on the table.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said, getting really angry now. ‘If you haven’t got vodka, then give me a large glass of Merlot.’
He leant forward menacingly and said, ‘I’m not giving you anything, madam.’ Then, in a fierce undertone, ‘Now just sling your hook before I call the manager and get you put out. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want your sort in here.’
My sort? What did he think I was? A tart touting for custom?
And then it dawned on me. That’s precisely what he did think. The idea was so ridiculous I started to laugh, despite myself. I slipped off the stool and made quite a good exit. But outside I was shaking. It was ridiculous but it was also insulting. I still hadn’t got a drink. And Will had got a wife. Not a good day.
I headed back to the Browns’. I desperately needed to talk properly to Will. This was a challenge too far, no joke. I remembered his blank look and started to panic again, wanted to cry. But no, it was a game, a TV show. It wasn’t real, I reminded myself firmly. It’s not real. We’d sort it all out tomorrow.
I blew my nose on the silly little lace-edged hanky I’d found in my jacket pocket and headed for home. I wasn’t sure of the way but I strode out purposefully and kept my head held high and my expression determined. I even tried to smile – just in case those cameras were watching.
Oh they’re clever, whoever’s doing this. Clever and crueltoo. But I must not let them get to me. I’m not going to let them. Whatever nasty sneaky tricks they pull.
I thought the 1950s house was going to be about practicalthings – like doing without decent wine and hotshowers, wearing scratchy underwear and not being ableto do my hair. Not psychological warfare. But then Iremembered a piece Caz wrote last year about how cruelreality TV was getting. Every new series pushes thebarriers a bit further. The last one locked people alonein the dark for days on end. They were so disorientatedthey lost all sense of reality and of who they were. Publicexecutions are the next step, Caz reckoned. But I thinkshe’s wrong. I think it’s mind games to see who can copebest. That’s why there was no warning, no preparation.Well, no one’s going to make a victim of me. Certainlynot for a TV programme. Certainly not for a TV programme I didn’t ask to be in. Not even after theirlatest trick.
We marched into work, Peggy and I, walking together, umbrellas up against the suddenly fierce spring rain, neither of us in the best of moods, neither of us saying a word. Not only had I not been able to get a drink last night, but when I got back to the house, supper was liver and onions and congealing cabbage, left in the oven for me, stuck to the plate with skin on the gravy. And that Janice was there again, doing sums about compound interest that stretched for pages and pages.
‘Always get an interest-free credit card,’ I’d offered as an attempt at a bit of cheerful advice, but then had to explain to her what a credit card was. It sounds so stupid when you try to explain it. And all the time my mind was full of thoughts of Will and his wife. And three children. It had to be a trick or a challenge, didn’t it?
It was like that bit in 1984 where Room 101 is full of all the things that people dread most. Well, I realised that what I dreaded most was losing Will. Only I hadn’t realised it until now. Obviously the TV people knew more about me than I knew about myself. Clever and cruel. No wonder I hadn’t slept. My eyes felt raw.
At breakfast Peggy was being a real pain, obviously more than normal as even her dad kept asking her if she was all right, but she only snapped back at him. Anyway, his mind was on other things and Mrs Brown was worried about a friend who was having some problems with her husband. So everyone was a bit distracted really.
Mrs Brown had dashed out even earlier than usual. ‘I want to go around to Joan’s and sort out a few things for her there. Dennis has had one of his turns again. Smashed the kitchen up this time.’
‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘Has she called the police? Is she safe? You don’t have to put up with domestic violence.’
‘He can’t help it,’ she said, gathering up her bag and scarf. ‘It’s them bloody Japs. They worked him almost to death in that prison camp. Before the war he was the loveliest, kindest man you could imagine. Now he gets these rages.’
‘Isn’t there some treatment he could have? Therapy? Counselling? Compensation? How on earth does his wife cope?’
I’d read all the articles on domestic violence, and written a fair few too. I knew the score and the helpline numbers.
Mrs Brown looked at me pityingly. ‘She’s just glad she’s got him back at all. And it’s not as bad as it was. It was fearful at first, like looking after a wounded animal. Now he’s much better, most of the time. But then something will start him off, something will remind him, and she has to sit with him and hold him and talk to him and keep him out of the children’s way. So I’ll just pop round to give her a hand and at least I’ll make sure the kids get a decent meal. You two can fend for yourselves. There’s some ham in the pantry and some cheese and I’ll pop a couple of potatoes in the oven for you so they should be baked when you get home. And there’s some of that treacle tart left.’
‘Right-o, Mum,’ said Peggy, ‘but I might be going out anyway.’
‘That’s