2

When Wednesday came around, Kitty did the tea for herself and her mum, washed and dried the dishes, and then set off for Wakefield Street, promising that she’d be back by ten, if not before.

She didn’t have anything suitable in blue to wear, so she stuck by her thoughts of the previous week, opting for a pair of black Lycra leggings, knee-length lace-up black boots (that she’d got half-price in the January sales), and a gold-braided Napoleonic Hussars jacket that she’d made out of a black blazer she’d bought from War on Want. (As her mum had so often said, “our Kitty might be one slice short of a sandwich, but she’s a real dab hand when it comes to needle and thread”.)

She had been once before to the King’s Arms, back in early June, when Charlie Moffat had asked her out. He’d taken her there for a drink and a scampi-in-a-basket supper. She’d quite liked the pub, and she’d quite liked the scampi, but Charlie not so much; he’d turned out to be all hands and football.

On this Wednesday’s visit, she only quickly put her nose round the lounge door, just to check that Charlie wasn’t in evidence. She then cut round the corner into Wakefield Street, went in the side door and followed the signs which led her down a dingy, lino-floored corridor and up a steep set of stairs.

When she got to the top landing, she was greeted at the entrance to the upstairs bar by a large middle-aged woman with a happy face and a forest-green twinset. The woman gave her enthusiastic thanks for coming, shook her hand like her life depended on it, and invited her to take a seat.

“There’ll be tea and biscuits after Dr Frobisher’s talk,” the woman added, and Kitty just nodded, retrieved her hand, and said thank you.

She then stepped into the room and was met by the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, overlaid by a hint of Opium. There were four rows each of eight folding chairs that had been set out, with the ones in the first two rows already fully occupied, mostly by young women, a few by older men. It puzzled Kitty a little as to why there was no one she could see who was wearing blue.

The two young women who were sat right at the back turned round to see who’d just come in, and they each gave Kitty a friendly smile. Kitty smiled back and took the seat at the other end of their row.

At the opposite end of the room, just in front of the bar, there were two people sat facing the audience. One of these was a ferrety-looking little man wearing National Health glasses and a stripy V-necked jumper. Kitty assumed that he was Dr Frobisher. He looked to be quite nervous and was fidgeting his feet a lot.

The person sat beside him was a rather rangy woman in a black dress, seated very primly, with her legs crossed, and her hands in her lap, holding a bundle of papers in a folder.

On the dot of seven, the woman in forest-green left her sentry post on the landing, closed the bar room door behind her, and marched with her arms swinging down to the front.

“Right!” she said, addressing the audience when she got there. “I’d like to thank you all again for coming. We really appreciate you giving your time. And after you’ve heard all the terrible things that Dr Frobisher has to report, I do hope that we can count on your support going forward. Something absolutely has to be done to stop these people.”

And with no further elaboration, which left Kitty intrigued but at the same time wondering if she might have missed something, the woman took a step back and indicated by means of an outstretched arm for Dr Frobisher to take the floor.

“Dr Frobisher,” she announced; and much to Kitty’s surprise, it was the rangy woman in the black dress who then rose to speak.

“Thank you, Helen,” Dr Frobisher began.

“Clive,” she continued, turning towards the chap in the National Health glasses, “would you be a dear and pass round these photographs, please?”

            And by such instruction, duly actioned by the chap in the V-necked sweater, the open meeting of the Blue Babes Brigade began.