Page 70 of Lessons in Life

‘Oh goodness, you look wonderful,’ Eloise breathed once Janice was fully made up and had the yellow dress on.

Obviously not fully. ‘Not got me lashes on yet.’ Janice laughed. ‘Bald as a wotsit without them.’

‘Right, come on, over here, Eloise,’ she ordered two minutes later. ‘Sit down.’

‘Put a towel round her, Janice,’ Norma advised. ‘Your mum does know you’re here, doesn’t she, love? She knows you’re off out with our Janice and her mates?’

‘Granny does.’ Eloise breathed, swivelling round on the little stool to face Janice as a crepe bandage was placed around her hairline and a tan pan stick applied to her cheeks and forehead. ‘I’m staying with her tonight. She’s just dropped me off.’

Five minutes later, once a final coat of Rimmel had been applied to her eyelashes, she was allowed to swivel back to the mirror to view the results. Staring back at her was a face she didn’t recognise, and she almost turned round to view the beautiful girl who must have taken her place on the stool.

‘What shall we do with her hair, Mum? Mum,’ she told Eloise, ‘used to be a hairdresser when she left school. But she gets paid so much more as a mender at Hudson’s.’

‘Better on me legs, but terrible on the eyes.’ Norma smiled. ‘You’ve beautiful thick hair, Eloise. Why don’t we just take it out of the rubber band – never use rubber bands in your hair, worst thing for it – then, let’s see, pull it up off your face, twist this round a bit.’ She secured it with a couple of clips, threaded some ribbon the same colour as the dress into its height before twisting the blonde locks dangling down around her fingers and fixing her handiwork with a blast of Elnett.

‘You, Eloise, could be a model. Have you never thought about it?’

‘I think my mother would see modelling as akin to selling myself on the street.’ Eloise blushed at the near mention of prostitution. ‘HowdoI stop blushing?’ she entreated.

‘Green powder, love. Here you go.’ Norma reached for the powder and brushed a tiny amount onto Eloise’s cheeks, standing back to see the result.

‘Right, we need to go, or we’ll miss the bus.’ Janice stood, and then frowned as she saw Eloise’s footwear. ‘Scholl sandals? She can’t dance in those.’

‘Well, she’ll have to. You’ve got big feet, love, or we’d lend you a pair.’

‘I know, I know,’ Eloise said, embarrassed as the three of them stared down at her feet. ‘I’ve always been a clodhopper.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Norma said as they left the bedroom and headed for the stairs. ‘Now, Janice, you’re to look after Eloise. She’s not used to being out with you lot. And no alcohol. She’s not eighteen yet.’ She turned back to Eloise. ‘I don’t think you’re eighteen yet, are you…?’ Norma broke off, the question left unanswered, as the door on their right opened.

‘Woah, who’s your mate?’ A tall, good-looking boy of around twenty was coming out of the bathroom, booted and suited and ready for Saturday-night revels.

‘Never you mind, Gary. She’s far too posh for you. You stick to your usual scrubbers.’

* * *

‘Your mum’s lovely,’ Eloise said, once they were upstairs on the red double-decker taking them into Midhope town centre. ‘But she seemed to know who I was.’

‘Everyone knows who you are, Eloise. You’ve been the talk of the mill ever since you started there.’

‘Really?’ Eloise digested this little nugget of information in silence.

‘Really. Right. Gail, Jean and Eileen get on here.’ Janice stood, opening the vehicle’s narrow top window before yelling down: ‘Oy, we’re up here, you lot.’

The three of them clattered up the bus’s steps, wobbling slightly on too-high heels, laughing raucously as they did so.

‘Blimey, nearly on me arse there.’

‘You lot had a drink already?’ Janice asked.

‘Yep, we called in for a Babycham at The Albion. Jacko and Ernie from work were in and bought us one each. Heck, you scrub up well,’ Jean went on as if suddenly realising, not only who Eloise was, but that she was with the group. ‘You look great.’

‘Janice’s mum was so utterly kind,’ Eloise explained, her cut-glass vowels, she was painfully aware, terribly out of place on the smoky top deck of the Number 32.

‘Right, I need a fag.’ Gail took out a pack of menthol Consulate, lighting up and immediately blowing smoke rings to the ceiling of the bus.

‘They’re like smoking bloody Polo mints,’ Eileen said. ‘But I’ve run out of me No.6. Come on, give us one. I’ll pay you back.’

Fifteen minutes later the bus, having stopped every two minutes to pick up more and more Saturday-evening revellers, came into the town’s bus station, spewing out its occupants into the warm July evening.

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