He had to make his move soon, he thought, and tonight he’d make sure Maisie knew he had designs on her

The Serial: The Green Years, Day 23

Chrissie nodded, glad they weren’t going to the badminton. Love still hurt. “I’ll get mum to pick up two tickets at the Rep for next Saturday,” Maisie called over her shoulder. “And it’s on me.” Maisie’s mother was watching the TV as usual and balancing a cup of tea in one hand and a doughnut in the other. “You’re late home from work,” she said, her eyes flicking momentarily towards her daughter before returning to the screen.

“Chrissie and me had pie and beans at Wallace’s,” she said, “Chrissie’s a bit fed up.”

“Oh!” came the reply.

“Yeah,” Maisie said, “so we’ve decided to go for a night out for my birthday next week and I thought you could maybe do me a favour.”

Maisie now had her mother’s undivided attention. “If you want to miss your board money again, the answer’s no,” she said emphatically.

“It’s nothing like that, “Maisie chided. “I need to get two tickets to the Rep for next Saturday and wondered if you could pick them up for us at the box office?”

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“The Rep,” Esther Green echoed. “You’re going up in the world, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Maisie answered, but secretly she knew different. She was going places and maybe a visit to the theatre would help improve her image. After all, she was now a bonus checker and a member of a badminton club and she had a lovely new room and as for her hair, well, blondes were entitled to have more fun, weren’t they?”

She rummaged in her handbag for her purse and took out two pound notes. She handed them to her mother. “There,” she said, “that should be enough, but if it’s not, I’ll give you the rest later.”

“What’s on,” her mother asked. “Don’t know,” said Maisie, “and it doesn’t matter, anyway. Just get the two tickets for next Saturday. Please?”

Mrs Green stuck the money under the ashtray on the little table by her side. “Consider it done,” she said and returned to her viewing.

“What’s that girl up to now,” her husband Joe asked, eventually dragging his eyes away from the news bulletin. “Turning into a right little madam in her old age, she is.”

Esther Green pursed her lips. “She’s just growing up, Joe,” she said, remembering her own “green years” when finding the right man had been the only consideration and look where that had led.

She finished her doughnut and lit another cigarette. Maybe Maisie would have more of a life than she’d had and if going to the theatre was what she fancied, did she, or anyone else for that matter, have the right to criticise her?

Ian Brown had been looking forward since the previous Tuesday to the badminton club and his next encounter with Maisie. He’d arrived early, hair cut at the weekend and doused in Old Spice aftershave.

He had to make his move soon, he thought, and tonight he’d make sure Maisie knew he had designs on her. “Hey,” called a female voice. “You’re early.”

Ian turned to face the advancing form of Fiona Campbell. He had once fancied Fiona but that was before he’d met Maisie Green. Now, all that had changed for him, but not for Fiona.

Admiration

“You look smart,” Fiona twittered, trying to conceal a flush of admiration for Ian, “Going somewhere later?” Ian unzipped his racquet from its case and glanced at his watch. It was gone 7.30, and the realisation grew that Maisie wasn’t coming.

“No,” he said, bringing his attention back to Fiona. “Just back to work as usual.” “Oh, yes,” Fiona remembered. “Security at the NCR, isn’t it?”

Ian sat on one of the chairs around the hall, his eyes flitting to the door every time it opened. But Maisie didn’t appear and he got more and more dejected. “Yeah,” he said, blandly. “Security.”

Fiona sat herself down next to him, unsure of herself and Ian’s mood. She’d had her eye on him for weeks now and just when she thought she was getting somewhere, Maisie Green had shown up and, to Fiona’s “green” eyes, had flaunted herself shamelessly to get his attention.

“You look as though you’ve lost a pound and found a shilling,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

Ian bounced his racquet against his free hand. Fiona was a lovely-looking girl and most men would jump at the chance to take her out. Although he was aware of her intentions towards him, he no longer responded to them. Ever since first meeting her, he only had eyes for Maisie and now, he had to accept, she didn’t have eyes for him.

He turned to face Fiona’s concerned face. “No, Fiona,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong.” He extended his hand to help her up from her seat. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s play.”

The exertion helped to work off the adrenalin that had surged through his system with Maisie’s non-appearance and by the end of the game he was whacked and grateful for Fiona’s offering of a large glass of orange squash.

“What are you doing Saturday?” Fiona asked casually, sipping her own drink and avoiding eye contact with Ian.

“Nothing much.”

“Well,” Fiona continued boldly, in for a penny in for a pound, “I’ve got a couple of theatre tickets for the Rep and thought you might like to go – if you fancy it. Cheer you up a bit.”

Deflated

There was a lengthy pause while Ian thought things through. He wouldn’t be seeing Maisie, that was for sure and Fiona was right, he did need a bit of cheering up.”

“That’s very friendly of you,” he said, pointedly. “I’ll pay for the tickets, though,” he added. Fiona almost jumped for joy. “No, no, they’re already paid for,” she said. “Dad got them from a colleague of his who had to call off.”

She was aware she was babbling and was a bit deflated when he had referred to her invite as friendly, but at least they would be going out together, instead of just being part of the group. Best of all, there would be no Maisie Green.

“Meet outside the Rep, then,” Ian said, packing up his badminton gear, around seven?” Fiona nodded, trying to keep the excitement out of her eyes. “Seven it is.”

The working week wore on and although Chrissie had perked up a bit, she still wasn’t back to her usual self by the time Friday came round.

“Mum’s got the tickets for tomorrow,” Maisie said as they walked to the bus stop. “It’s a real play too,” she continued, trying to build suspense into her words, “by Agatha Christie.”

Chrissie stopped walking, “Agatha “Christie,” Maisie repeated, not knowing who she was, either. “Who’s she?”

More tomorrow.