He was waiting for her, clearly listening for the sound of her key in the lock, for she’d barely shaken the rain from her hair when his living room door opened. She tried to hide her disappointment at seeing him. She’d hoped he would be out. He usually was on a Saturday. The town was full of Saturday night revellers, girls screaming, boys swaggering, and the air blue with their cigarette smoke; young, carefree and immortal. The rain was incidental to them.
‘Bloody awful weather,’ Billy said, taking in her bedraggled hair. His eyes were bright. There was a tangible excitement about him. It made Rita nervous.
‘Yes,’ she said, peeling off her raincoat.
‘It’s going to buck up later, though,’ he smiled.
Rita yanked off her boots and looked in dismay at her wet stockinged feet. Her boots were letting in water. She’d had them forever. She should have bought new ones ages ago. It was too late now to go shopping for a new pair; besides, she didn’t have enough money. Not until payday.
‘I thought we’d go to the dogs,’ Billy was saying. ‘We’re always saying we’ll go, aren’t we? I feel lucky tonight.’
Rita licked her lips nervously. She’d been avoiding Billy and she was sure he knew it. She didn’t want to upset him, but she didn’t want to continue their evenings on the couch.
He rubbed his hands together gleefully.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I feel tonight is our night. This time tomorrow night we’ll be millionaires,’ he chuckled.
Rita was tired. The store was always busy on a Saturday and today had been no exception. In fact, it had seemed busier than usual. Rita had even been put on the till for an hour. People just seemed to flow in like a river, each of them with his or her own goal. She’d looked for Henry amongst the hoard of shoppers and had been disappointed not to see him. She’d hoped he may have popped in to explain what had happened yesterday. How it had been a misunderstanding. She’d wanted to apologise for running off like she had. He must have thought her very silly. She hoped he wasn’t embarrassed. She’d asked Daphne not to mention it to their supervisor.
‘I don’t want to make trouble,’ she’d said.
‘You’re too easy-going, that’s your trouble,’ Daphne had responded. ‘He didn’t care about making trouble for you, did he?’
‘I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.’
Perhaps Henry would come in on Monday, she consoled herself and then she could apologise.
‘Do you want to tart yourself up?’ Billy was saying. ‘I’ll buy you dinner. They do good fish and chips.’
Rita considered the phrase ‘tart yourself up’. It sounded so cheap. Why do people insist on using such horrible phrases she wondered? You’d think people would stop using words like that, words that degraded women. As if a woman would deliberately make herself look tarty before going out for the evening. Is that what men think women like to do? Throw on the slap, as Daphne would say, so they look tarty. If that was the case, Rita didn’t want to tart herself up, thank you very much. Fish and chips sounded good though, better than the beans on toast that awaited her. That or scrambled eggs. There wasn’t much else in the cupboard. She had hoped to bring home a spicy lamb pie, but all the samples had gone. She could do with a bit of luck. She wouldn’t stay late or drink too much. She’d tell Billy she was tired.
‘I’ll just get changed,’ she said, which sounded far better than ‘I’ll just tart myself up.’
*
He took her to Walthamstow stadium where inside the stench of old beer was nauseating. Years of spillage never cleaned. Rita wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore it, grateful to be in the warm. The adrenalin flowed from the crowd as soon as they entered the stadium. It was their big night out. The anticipation of a big win on everyone’s minds, even Rita’s. You could smell the tension. If I could just win fifty pounds, she thought. I could get a pair of boots without having to wait for payday.
The restaurant was full, but Billy had booked a table. They sat near a group of women who kept collapsing in a fit of giggles. One of them had a sash around her which read ‘HE PUT A RING ON IT’. They used to say ‘BRIDE TO BE’ thought Rita. Everything’s changing.
‘Someone’s having a good time,’ Billy said with a sideways glance at Rita.
He was having a dig at her, hinting she should be livelier. She was tired and it showed. Her legs ached too. She’d hoped they could sit and watch the races, but Billy dragged her to the front where it was standing room only. She’d never have come if she’d known they were going to stand. She’d done enough of that all day. It was cold too.
‘Best view,’ he said.
The gigantic floodlights were blinding.
Rita felt a tingle down her spine when the first race started but it slowly diminished as her dog laboured at the back. Maybe the next one, she told herself hopefully. After each race she and Billy would traipse back into the crush of the hall where chattering people swirled about getting drinks and placing bets. But still Rita’s dogs didn’t win. She didn’t seem to have any luck. The fish and chips hadn’t been what she’d hoped and were too greasy and the wine vinegary and sharp on her tongue. Billy seemed to like it and drank far too much. Rita checked the time constantly and mourned the twenty-five pounds she had wasted.
‘Maybe next time,’ Billy laughed, not in the least bit bothered that he had lost.
It must be nice to have so much money, Rita thought; to never have to worry about the bills or rent.
Billy insisted they have a last drink before getting a taxi home. Rita didn’t want the vinegary wine so opted for a shandy, but the lemonade was flat, and it just wasn’t the same somehow. It was hot and noisy inside. People were talking loudly, making smutty remarks. It’s the drink talking, Rita thought. Drink made people say horrible things. She was glad when Billy finished his wine and they could finally leave.
Billy rambled on about what a great night it had been until Rita’s head started to ache. As they approached the house Rita experienced an odd sinking feeling in her stomach. It was as though something was very wrong and if they didn’t go into the house they would never have to know what it was. She fought down the urge to tell the taxi driver to continue on. But, continue on where, she wondered? She had nowhere else to go except her mother’s care home and she couldn’t go there with cheap wine lacing her breath. Her mother would smell it immediately. She’d sit in her grey armchair and sniff the air like a dog and then would begin ranting about the evils of alcohol and Rita would smell the floral-scented disinfectant that never quite covered the stench of urine and throw up onto the dark green carpet. Her eyes would try to avoid the photos of her father that sat in gilt frames on the mahogany dresser. He would be judging her, warning her of what was to come. No, she couldn’t go to her mother’s. She couldn’t look at those photos and accusing eyes. She had no option but to go into the house with Billy.
*
