She sighed heavily and let the creased newspaper flop back onto the table.Her fingers curled around the sides of the newspaper and lifted it from the small table's surface where it had been lying flat. One top corner flopped over with the tightness of her grip. Her meatless buttocks stopped their jiggling on the hard wooden chair, the gentle rhythm of Billy Ternent's orchestra failing to stir them now.
One-and-tuppence! One-and-bloody tuppence for a tin of sardines! And the silly buggers were going to do away with the price control on other fish next week! That was it then: Eugene would just have to enjoy his white beans a bit more. It should have made things easier with food rationing being phased out, but lack of money in the pocket did a better job than any ration book. You'd think they'd do more to help war-widows. Soddin Attlee and his Welfare State. What about her bleedin welfare? And Eugene's?
Vera Braid was a tiny woman and she needed to be to fit into the cupboard that was her office. For some reason the door, which should have provided a barrier between herself and the smells of the ladies' lavatory she was attendant to, had been removed long ago. No one knew why it had been taken, nor who had taken it. Misfortunes of war.
It wasn't the piss and shit that smelled so much, but the gallons of disinfectant she used to disperse the stink. Many a visitor might have preferred the more offensive but less overpowering natural smells; the disinfectant had a way of tearing through the nasal passages and singeing the brain. Those who knew Vera and took time to have a quick brew with her down there claimed even her tea had an antiseptic tang.
Vera tucked a wayward strand of hair back into her green turban and glanced through the net curtain she had fixed across the doorframe; the flimsy material gave her a token privacy but hardly kept unwanted aromas away.
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