Gina was thoughtful throughout the meal and topped up Lizzie’s wine glass, seemingly without thinking. Lizzie’s parents didn’t have wine with meals as a regular thing but, as her father had said, Gina was very ‘modern’. Lizzie’s father obviously did not approve of modernness.
After the washing up was done – although Gina said she was quite happy to leave the dishes until the following morning when her charwoman would come and do them, Lizzie turned her attention to Gina’s mending.
It was in a bag and there was quite a lot of it. Lizzie discovered that Gina just shoved things in there and never looked at them again. She just bought a replacement. So there were quite a few dresses that needed the hemming, some buttons to be replaced and a torn sheet.
‘Don’t worry about the sheet, darling,’ said Gina, seemingly a bit embarrassed. ‘I’ll get the laundry to do it.’
‘Is that how it got torn?’ asked Lizzie.
‘No,’ said Gina. ‘Now, have you got everything you need?’
Chapter Three
On Friday, Gina drew Lizzie into the sitting room the minute Lizzie had taken off her coat.
‘Lizzie, I know we’re not quite there yet, but what are you planning to do for the weekend?’
This was more than a casual query, Lizzie could tell. ‘Well, my mother wants me to go home but I said I’d prefer to explore London a little. But of course, if it’s inconvenient—’
‘No, no. You should definitely get to know London a little. I’ll give you an A to Z and you can spend Saturday exploring and, in the evening, Barry will take us to the theatre.’
This sounded very jolly and after supper, having washed up and left the kitchen so even her mother would have been satisfied, Lizzie went to bed, excited at the prospect of being free to explore her new surroundings.
Thus, on Saturday, having had a slightly hurt conversation with her mother who had wanted her at least to visit for the day on Sunday (her motherhad always been excellent at making Lizzie feel guilty), armed with the A–Z Gina had given her, Lizzie set forth. She wasn’t used to doing things on her own but it wasn’t very long before she began to revel in her solitude.
She could stop and look in shop windows, or not, as the mood took her. She could look at the people who inhabited the King’s Road – very different from the people in her own market town. There were Beatniks, with beards – Lizzie couldn’t think of a single person who had a beard that she knew except the man who ran the wholefood shop, who wore sandals all year round. But here people had beards and longer hair. She saw a woman in a sack dress – a style she’d only seen in magazines.
Her plan was to explore the King’s Road in the direction of Sloane Square and from there make her way to Knightsbridge and Harrods. She and her mother used to visit Harrods when they came up to Daniel Neal to buy her school uniform. Once they’d bought the school blouses for another year, they’d get into a taxi. If Lizzie’s mother was feeling generous they’d buy something from Harrods, a pair of gloves or a hair clip, so they’d have a little green bag with gold writing on it.
While still in the King’s Road, Lizzie spotted a dress shop with only one dress in the window. It was scarlet, plain and short. It had no sleeves anda deep round neck. In the shop it was put over a black polo-neck jumper, as unlike the full-skirted shirtwaister dresses her mother liked her to wear as was possible.
Lizzie gazed at it thoughtfully. She did have a little money but if she bought the dress she wouldn’t have any money until her next month’s allowance was due. And did she need to buy it? Could she just buy a pattern and make it for herself? She thought longingly of the sewing machine left behind at home and then moved on to the hairdresser next door.
This was also very different. At home the hairdresser was full of women sitting under dryers like giant eggs, reading magazines. This one was small, didn’t seem to have any overhead hairdryers and had pictures outside of models with very different hairstyles from the ordered curls favoured by her mother’s generation.
She was just trying to imagine herself with short hair when a young man came out.
‘Excuse me! Miss!’
It took him a couple of goes before Lizzie realised he was talking to her. ‘Oh! Hello?’
‘I was just wondering if you fancied having your hair cut? I’m looking for a model, you see. I have a new stylist. She’s good but inexperienced in the kind of cut people want now.’
‘Er …’
‘It would be free.’ He hesitated. ‘Would you mind stepping into the shop for a minute? Your hair is in great condition. I’d love to—’
Without finishing his sentence he somehow steered Lizzie into his shop and seated her in front of a mirror.
A gown was flung round her shoulders.
‘Come over here!’ said the man to someone hovering in the background. ‘Come and see this hair. Unpermed, unbleached, in really lovely condition.’
A nervous young woman appeared in the mirror and watched as the man ran his fingers through Lizzie’s hair. ‘And look!’ he said. ‘A perfect widow’s peak. So, er, Miss – what is your name? I can’t go on calling you Miss.’
‘Lizzie,’ said Lizzie, charmed and unnerved at the same time.
‘And I’m Terry. This is Susan; she’s my student. She’s good but she hasn’t done a proper geometric cut before. If you let her cut your hair I’d pay you.’
