The Palace of Strange Girls
The Palace of Strange Girls
Sallie Day
I-SPY AT THE SEASIDEHello, children! Welcome to your very own I-Spy Book. In these pages you’ll be able to look for all kinds of secret, exciting things that are found only by the sea.Blackpool, 1959. The Singleton family is on holiday. For seven-year-old Beth, just out of hospital, this means struggling to fill in her ‘I-Spy’ book and avoiding her mother Ruth’s eagle-eyed supervision. Her sixteen-year-old sister Helen, meanwhile, has befriended a waitress whose fun-loving ways hint at a life beyond Ruth’s strict rules.But times are changing. As foreman of the local cotton mill, Ruth’s husband Jack is caught between unions and owners whose cost-cutting measures threaten an entire way of life. And his job isn’t the only thing at risk. When a letter arrives from Crete, a secret re-emerges from the rubble of Jack’s wartime past that could destroy his marriage.As Helen is tempted outside the safe confines of her mother’s stern edicts, with dramatic consequences, an unexpected encounter inspires Beth to forge her own path. Over the holiday week, all four Singletons must struggle to find their place in a shifting world of promenade amusements, illicit sex and stilted afternoon teas, in this touching and extraordinarily evocative novel.
SALLIE DAY
The Palace of Strange Girls
For Julian
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 (#ube749456-4a28-550a-94ca-0b715a6e7fad)
Chapter 2 (#u7f81f937-8efd-53a4-b0fe-5e868733e683)
Chapter 3 (#u24c99230-cbf2-5be6-bfb7-1114583195a7)
Chapter 4 (#u1c47e380-31de-5ae3-9eb9-8d6cda78b144)
Chapter 5 (#ue23de4f1-382c-5737-b399-a56a58d048bf)
Chapter 6 (#ud093aab5-5aff-581a-a4ac-e2ff14a05f2a)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on… (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
I-SPY AT THE SEASIDE
Hello, children! Welcome to your very own I-Spy book. In these pages you’ll be able to look for all kinds of secret, exciting things that are found only by the sea. As you spot each of the things pictured here – and answer the simple questions – you earn an I-Spy score. It’s fun!
Blackpool, Tuesday 12 July 1959
Beth has had it with Jesus. She’s kicking the skirting boards to prove it and she hopes He’s watching. Mrs Brunskill at Sunday School says He’s watching all the time, even when you’re asleep. It’s amazing. You’d think He’d be too busy (what with all the cripples and foolish virgins) to be bothered with Beth. Thus assured of an audience, she pauses in her assault and eyes the heavily varnished wood. Beth is disappointed; the skirting boards are as yet undamaged, so she changes leg and carries on kicking. Flakes of dirty cream paint and grey plaster spiral down from the wall above her head and the picture of a little boy crying rattles in its frame. Beth carries on kicking.
‘You big bugger,’ she mouths on the off chance He’s listening as well as watching. Beth has learned the word from the dustbin man, Mr Kerkley, who lives next door. Mr Kerkley shouted ‘You little bugger’ at Beth’s best friend Robert when he dragged a club hammer into their coal shed and reduced all the big shiny lumps of coal into powdered shale. Beth had repeated the story to her mother. Word for word. She’d hoped to witness a satisfying gasp of shocked disbelief and disapproval from her mother, but her tale had the reverse effect. Her mother took her by the scruff of the neck and washed her mouth out with soap and water for using dirty words. Since then the offending word has been a constant resource for the child, who mouths it silently on a daily basis.
Beth woke early this morning. Wiping the sweat from her face, she sat up and dangled her feet out of the bed, waving them back and forth through air thick with the smell of bacon fat, unreliable plumbing and floral disinfectant. After a moment she slipped on her sandals (ignoring the shiny steel buckles that must always be fastened) and rummaged around under her pillow for the book. She has had the I-Spy book for four days now. Beth’s initial reverence for the volume has been replaced with an obsessive fascination. Its white pages have softened to cream under Beth’s sweaty-fingered perusal. It was purchased at the newsagent’s on the first day of the holiday and Beth will not be parted from it. By day she carries it around in her pocket or, failing that, inside her knickers. By night she sleeps with the book under her pillow and her hand on top of it. Beth is at a loss to decide which is the best part – the book itself or the codebook that came with it. And then there’s the membership card, the source of her present frustration.
The green card announces in heavy type ‘Official Membership Card – Issued by Big Chief I-Spy, Wigwam-by-the-Water, London’. Underneath there are four dotted lines for the member’s name and address. Although Beth can write her first name easily enough, her surname is long and fraught with difficulties. It has to be perfect. Bearing this in mind, Beth reached reluctantly for her glasses. The pink clinic glasses have a plaster stuck over the right lens. It is there to correct a lazy eye. The flexible wires hook ferociously round her ears and the frames dig in across the bridge of her nose. The discomfort always serves to concentrate Beth’s mind. The ‘B’ for Beth went down wobbly but correct, the ‘e’ and ‘t’ were easy and even the string on the ‘h’ was almost straight. She paused before attempting her surname, Singleton. The task demands a deep breath before she starts and, in the face of her inability to write the letter ‘S’, something approaching a miracle. Where should she start? Does the snake go this way or that? Within minutes the virgin card is smeared with rubber and gouged with the swan-necked traces of continued attempts. It makes no difference how hard she tries, the ‘S’ always comes out back to front. Beth cast around for a solution to her dilemma. An idea occurred. The verse she had to learn and recite at Sunday School last week was,
Ask and it shall be given. Seek and ye shall find.
The memory slipped back unbidden into Beth’s head as she surveyed the wreckage of her once pristine membership card. It might be worth a try.
Beth placed her palms together and scrunched her eyes shut in an effort to attract the Almighty’s attention and asked. She then set the point of her pencil to the card. When she finally opened her eyes, eager for the promised miracle, she found yet another backward ‘S’. The letter lay fixed on the page. Eternally, immovably wrong. Beth stared at the card in disbelief. This is why she is now venting her fury on the nearest thing – the skirting boards.
The room that Beth shares with her sister is devoid of any luxury other than a dusty blue rug between the two single beds and a similar grey offering underneath the washstand in the corner. This is the Belvedere Hotel (‘Families Welcome, Hot and Cold Water in Every Room, Residents’ Bar’). Management do not supply eiderdowns in their fourth-floor bedrooms, nor do they supply dressing tables, trouser presses, suitcase stands or any facilities for hanging clothes other than two hooks behind the door. Not that either girl is discomforted in any way. Save for the washstand and the film of dust, room forty-eight is exactly the same as their attic bedroom at home. Except that Beth wouldn’t dare kick the skirting boards like this at home. Beth lands another almighty kick on the woodwork.
The noise wakens her sister Helen who, aware of the damage that Beth, clad only in her vest, is visiting upon the toes of her new Startrite sandals, is quick to respond. ‘For goodness’ sake, Beth! Stop that kicking. You’ll ruin your sandals doing that. What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t do it,’ Beth shouts.
‘What can’t you do?’
Beth gets down on to her knees by way of reply and searches under her bed. Helen yawns, scrapes her fingers through her thick blonde fringe and flips the rest of her hair behind her shoulders. Helen has been trying to grow her hair to shoulder length for over a year now but her mother, who considers long hair to be an open invitation to nits, has constantly thwarted her. Normally Helen would have had her hair cut at the beginning of the Easter term but her mother was distracted by other things and Helen escaped. It is now July and her hair has grown long enough for a ponytail. Her mother has told her that she will have to have it cut before school starts again in September. But Helen isn’t inclined to have her hair cut and she’d rather be dead than go back to school.
At last Beth retrieves the card and wipes it down the front of her vest to dislodge the dust, fluff and flakes of discarded skin.
Helen yawns again and says, ‘Is that all? Flippin’ ’eck, Beth. It’s just a membership card. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Don’t start crying. Give it here and get me something to rest it on.’
Beth hands over the card and watches as her sister gets out her white clutch bag. There had been an upset when their mother had first caught sight of the bag. Helen had claimed that it was ‘soiled goods’ that couldn’t be sold at the shop, so Blanche had given it to her for working late one Saturday. Ruth remarked that it didn’t look soiled to her but Helen insisted that it had been and she’d managed to get the mark out of the plastic with soap and water. The truth was somewhat different. Helen had purchased the bag from the brand-new spring range at Freeman Hardy & Willis. She’d have preferred leather but plastic will do – just so as it’s this season’s colour: white. She’d got the money in the form of an unofficial cash bonus from Blanche. Blanche is keen to escape the attentions of the taxman and Helen is equally anxious to avoid her mother getting wind of the extra cash. Helen is expected to hand over her untouched wage packet to her mother every Saturday night. Ruth takes the little brown packet and, having counted out the ten-shilling notes, gives Helen the residue of change back as spending money. It’s called ‘bringing the old cat a mouse’. The sudden appearance of Helen carrying a brand-new bag rattled her mother, who would never dream of buying a white clutch. Ruth makes do with a more serviceable brown handbag with strap handles that she’s had since the war. She was suspicious of Helen’s explanation but limited herself to saying, ‘I don’t know why Blanche let you have a bag. You’ve nothing to put in it.’
‘I’ve got my purse and a handkerchief,’ Helen replied, waiting until her mother was out of hearing before adding, ‘and the rest of my bonus.’
Helen, stung by her mother’s dismissal, has made it her immediate ambition to fill the bag. Her first secret purchase with the hidden money was a miniature diary and notebook from Mayhew’s and she intends to buy a whole range of forbidden items in the future – a lipstick, mascara, powder, maybe even cigarettes. With one pound, two shillings and sixpence the possibilities are well-nigh endless.
Beth is impatient. She pushes the I-Spy book into Helen’s lap and says, ‘Can you write my name and everything? Can you do it now?’
The bag opens with a sophisticated click and Beth watches transfixed as Helen pulls out a tiny gilt case with matching gilt pencil topped with a rubber. The card is thin and creases easily under Beth’s clumsy fingers, but after Helen rubs the paper it’s so clean that there’s barely a trace of Beth’s abortive attempts. When she’s satisfied Helen asks, ‘Do you want it big?’
Beth nods enthusiastically.
Helen picks up the pencil and writes the word SPUTNIK in block capitals. Underneath, where it says address, she writes ‘COAL-’OLE-BY-THE-TOILET, BACKYARD, BLACKBURN’.
Beth’s face is a picture.
‘What’s wrong? That’s your name, isn’t it? It’s what Dad calls you.’
Beth clenches her teeth and her hands bunch into fists. Helen laughs. ‘Well, what do you want to be called then? What shall I write?’
‘Elizabeth Singleton.’
‘Oh, Elizabeth, is it?’
Helen goes into her bag again for her mottled blue Conway Stewart pen with the fat gold nib and begins to write. Helen is nine years older than Beth and her handwriting is beautiful; she puts little circles over her ‘i’s and even draws little flowers inside the letter ‘B’. When she’s finished Beth’s name looks so pretty, so grown up.
Beth is elated. She reads the card avidly until she reaches the space for her Redskin name. She looks up at her sister and points at the blank space. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to fill that in until later,’ Helen remarks. This is true. Beth must fill in every page of I-Spy at the Seaside and send it to Big Chief I-Spy who will send her a certificate and a feather to prove she’s a proper Redskin. Only then can she choose any name she likes. But Beth is impatient – she wants a name now.
‘What about “Little Cloud” or “Laughing Waters”?’ Helen suggests.
Beth looks unconvinced. She wants to be called something frightening. ‘Wolf Teeth’ would be good. Or ‘Growling Bear’. Beth needs to find another club member so that she can join their tribe instead of being by herself all the time. She’s been absent from school for a long time and all the friends she used to know are now friends with someone else. It would be better if Beth could join in at playtime but her mother has told the school that Beth is not allowed to swing, climb, skip or run. As a result Beth just sits and watches at playtime. Waiting for someone to play marbles with her.
Of all the myriad rules there is one above all others that must not be broken. Beth must never, ever, for any reason take off her wool vest. As a result the vest (Ladybird age 5) is Beth’s closest companion. It is only removed once a week when Beth is bathed and is immediately replaced by another vest fresh from the airing cupboard and smelling of Lux soapflakes. In this manner Beth’s shame is kept from the sight of all but her mother.
‘For goodness’ sake, Beth! What are we going to do about your sandals?’ Beth looks down at the scuffed leather. She has had the sandals for six weeks but has only been wearing them since Saturday, the start of the holiday. It seems that only Beth is subject to this particular rule. All Beth’s friends have been wearing their sandals since Easter and Susan Fletcher has been wearing hers even longer. All year round, in fact. But that’s because Susan Fletcher’s mum works and she ‘doesn’t care what state she sends her daughter to school in’. At least that’s what Beth’s mother says.
‘I hate these,’ Beth complains, kicking off her sandals. ‘Only boys wear brown sandals. I didn’t even get to stand on the thing that makes your feet go all green like a skellington.’
‘You mean the X-ray machine. No one will notice they’re brown. Anyway they match your hair,’ says Helen, in a moment of inspiration.
They are interrupted by a sharp rapping at the door. Both girls jump.
‘That’s Mum! Quick, get your sandals on or we’ll both catch it.’
Ruth Singleton, her arms full of clothes, waits in the hallway, her right foot tapping on the varnished floorboards. If her patience is short today it’s due to her husband’s ill-starred attempt at marital intimacy this morning. Surely he can see how she is after all these months of anxiety? But not Jack. No. Jack thinks a bit of early-morning sex is on the menu now they’re on holiday. Ruth had tolerated his caresses until his increasing insistence had forced her to push his hand away and say, ‘Don’t, Jack. I have to get up to get the girls ready.’
He hadn’t said anything, had limited himself to a drawn-out sigh. Ruth felt an answering rush of anger. Does it always have to come down to this?
Ruth is prised from the memory by the sound of the door finally opening. None of this palaver with locks would be necessary if it weren’t for her younger daughter’s recently acquired habit of sleepwalking. This is bad enough at home, but there’s no telling what trouble the seven-year-old might get into in a hotel the size of the Belvedere. In a doomed attempt to allay Mrs Singleton’s worst fears, the hotel manager has sworn on his mother’s life (a lady much missed since her demise three years previously) that the room locks are made by the same firm who supplied the MOD during the war. Even the ‘blasted Hun’ couldn’t breach the security of the Belvedere’s rooms and thus Beth’s habit of going AWOL at night has been curtailed. This desirable state being attained not by the hoped-for Yale lock and chain, but by the effect of damp salt air on turn-of-the-century iron locks. All of which means that Helen must use the combined strength of both hands and the leverage of her shoulder to release the door.
Though barely topping five foot six, Ruth appears much larger. Her face is scrubbed to a shine and her brown hair (already falling victim to the stealthy approach of grey) is brushed and fixed neatly into a Victory Roll that evokes memories of the war years and oppressive rationing. She is an energetic woman. A woman devoted to hard work. A woman reliant upon the writings of Elizabeth Craig to guide her through the minefield of domestic practice. Once in the room, Ruth dumps the clothes on the nearest bed and heads straight for the window to let in the sunshine. This involves coaxing, flicking, tugging and hauling the pea-green damask curtains to either end of a buckled and sagging wire. Halfway through this daily ordeal Ruth is distracted by the sight of the hotel yard, four floors below. It is lined with overflowing bins and a miscellaneous collection of mops, buckets and rusty chairs occupied by members of the hotel staff during their tea breaks. There, in full view, stands a line of sullen grey dustbins on an island of cracked concrete; the whole amply irrigated by the backwash of overflowing kitchen drains. Ruth’s whitewashed backyard boasts two bins, double the capacity of her terraced neighbours’. One (supplied by the local council) for ashes, and the other (privately purchased) for household waste. Ruth always wraps potato peelings and the like before disposal. Only by wrapping everything in fresh newspaper can Ruth ensure that the inside of her bin remains as clean as the day she bought it.
The sight of the hotel bins is aggravated further by the appearance of two overturned buckets that roll back and forth as the wind shifts. Surely the hotel owns more by way of cleaning equipment than that? Ruth has a whole selection of buckets in her backyard. One for gathering up the hot ashes from the kitchen fire, one for scrubbing floors, another for washing windows and, finally, a monstrous aluminium bucket, twice the size of its iron counterparts, for ‘best’. In line with its elevated status this bucket stands in glorious isolation in the scullery, immaculately clean and gleaming with potential, waiting for the next load of cottons that need starching.
Ruth’s ruminations on household equipment are interrupted by a cry of protest from her older daughter: ‘Isn’t it time I changed my skirt, Mum?’
Ruth turns her gaze from the window. ‘I don’t know what you’re fussing about. That skirt will do another day. You’ve got clean underwear. You wouldn’t have that if I hadn’t spent half an hour in the laundry room last night.’
This is not quite the irksome job it might appear. The hotel laundry room houses a brand-new Bendix Twin Tub. Under the pretext of hand-washing the family’s underwear, Ruth has admired the top-loader lids and neat hoses on the twin tub, seen the spinner in action. As the adverts say: ‘This is the future of household laundry.’ Ruth has a Hotpoint Empress at home. With its built-in ‘automatic’ wringer and Bakelite agitator it used to be the last word in laundry. But the advent of the Bendix Twin Tub has changed all that. Who would want the backache of hauling double sheets through the wringer if they could drop them in a spinner and pull them out forty minutes later drip free? This is the modern world of post-war Britain. A world made familiar to Ruth through magazines. A world she is determined to enter.
Ruth turns her attention to her younger daughter. ‘Have you washed your face, Elizabeth? Elizabeth!’
Beth has her head firmly in the I-Spy codebook. She is practising stroking her cheek in the manner prescribed at the beginning of chapter 3 ‘Greeting other Redskins’. Beth has been rehearsing this move for the past four days but no one has yet responded.
‘Elizabeth!’ Ruth says, taking her daughter firmly by the arm. ‘Are you listening? Have you washed your face?’
‘Yes.’ It is a small lie. So small that it barely deserves the name. But it affords a morsel of revenge, a minor victory in the guerrilla war Beth has been waging since Easter, a war that Ruth is only dimly aware is being fought.
‘Looks more like a lick and a promise to me,’ Ruth says, scanning her daughter’s face. ‘You could do with using a bit of soap next time.’
‘Can I have a summer dress today? Please. I hate wearing shorts. I look like a boy in them.’
Ruth holds up the brown shorts. The weave is a right-hand twill, perfect for rough wear because it will resist snags and tears. And it won’t wear out. ‘Well, if these shorts and those sandals aren’t summery I don’t know what is,’ she says. ‘I’ve only brought your jumper because we’ve got to keep you warm.’
‘Can I wear this?’ Beth asks as she pulls a smocked cotton dress from the bottom of the pile. Beth has inherited the dress from her sister but has yet to be allowed to wear it.
Ruth holds up the dress. ‘It might do,’ she concedes. There follow a frantic ten minutes while Ruth tries and fails to fit the dress over Beth’s wool vest and fleece-lined liberty bodice. ‘It’s no good, Elizabeth. It’s not going to fit. Hold your arms up while I get it off.’
Beth raises her arms as the dress is pulled up over her head, bringing the vest and liberty bodice with it. By the time Beth emerges from the struggle her face is the colour of the rising sun – for a minute she looks healthy. In her haste to protect her daughter from any potential draughts Ruth yanks the vest back across Beth’s skin so sharply that the child flinches with pain. In another moment she is dressed in the prescribed brown knee-length shorts, olive-green jumper and thick socks to take up the slack in her sandals.
‘There. Now you’re done.’ Ruth heaves a sigh with the effort involved in arming her daughter against all the sharp winds and torrential rain that Blackpool can offer in the middle of July.
2 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
RED-EYED SANDHOPPER
These little animals live between the tidemarks, chiefly under stones and in the rotting seaweed at the top of the beach. They are white with bright-red eyes and five pairs of legs. Score 10 points for a bleary-eyed sandhopper.
Jack has escaped early to buy a newspaper. With this end in mind he has made his way to the promenade in holiday mood. The sun is still a bit fitful but the air is fresh. He is easily tempted by the sea and so wanders over the tram tracks and pink tarmac to the edge of the promenade, takes a deep breath and gazes over the railings. The run-up to the annual Wakes Week holiday has been hectic. The weaving shed where Jack is foreman has been buzzing with talk of closure. Jack has spent the last week sorting out one problem after another, reorganising shifts, dealing with strike threats and all the while continuing the daily struggle to keep output steady. Jack takes another deep breath and, determined to relax, gazes out to the horizon. The tide is coming in and the remaining strip of sand is empty save for a single figure, shoes in hand, making its way painfully over sand hard rippled by the tide. It’s Dougie.
‘Mornin’, Dougie! Up an’ at it already?’ Jack shouts.
The figure looks up and glares. Dougie Fairbrother is knee high to a grasshopper and walks like he’s fighting a gale. When he comes within hailing distance he yells, ‘What time is it, Jack?’
‘Just comin’ up to twenty past.’
‘What?’ Receiving no immediate reply, he adds, ‘Twenty past what?’
‘Seven.’
‘That means I’ve been on this friggin’ beach for the best part of two bloody hours,’ Dougie says as he makes his way slowly up the concrete steps that separate the beach from the prom. Jack shakes his head. He has known Dougie Fairbrother all his life. Jack was the first person Dougie went to when his wife walked out and it was Jack who got him sorted out with a solicitor. Dougie has developed a fair thirst since his divorce back in the spring. It’s eight in the morning and he’s still drunk from the night before. When Dougie finally reaches the top of the steps he stops to catch his breath. Dougie has worked in the weaving shed since he was fourteen, that’s the best part of twenty years filling his lungs with lint and dust.
While he is puffing and blowing Jack remarks, ‘Aye, well, they say there’s no rest for the wicked. What happened to lying in bed, Dougie? I thought your lad had booked a double room.’
‘He did. But it’s otherwise occupied at the moment. The little bastard has got a lass from over yonder in with him.’
Jack follows the direction of Dougie’s thumb and sees a strip joint on the corner opposite with all the hatches battened down. ‘Who’s he got in there?’ he asks, hard pushed to hide his incredulity.
‘One of the strippers. I didn’t stop long enough to get her name and there were no bloody point asking Doug. Pound to a penny he wouldn’t know.’
‘So where did you sleep?’
‘I kipped down in the Residents’ Lounge. I was OK till the cleaners turned up at six and threw me out. I’ve been hanging around here on the off chance one of the lads turned up. I’m chilled to the bloody bone and gasping for a drink. They won’t open the hotel doors before nine at the earliest.’
Jack puts his hand in his pocket and gives Dougie half a crown. ‘That’ll be enough to get you a pot of tea and some breakfast.’
Dougie brightens immediately and says, ‘Thanks, Jack. E-e, but you should have come with us last night. We had a grand time. It was a good do.’
‘Looks like it,’ replies Jack.
Dougie blinks his bloodshot eyes and rubs a calloused hand over his sickly face. ‘We started off at Yates’s but, God help us, we ended up at the King o’ Clubs.’
‘I’m surprised you went back there. I thought you’d been thrown out last time,’ Jack says as they cross the tramlines.
‘We were. It was Tapper’s fault. We sat through this load o’ guff about how we were going to see amazing things. Some tart wi’ her own version of ping-pong, half a dozen Egyptian dancers, that sort of thing. We’d gone in to see Sheba, the star of the show. She was billed as “six foot of exotic woman, naked as God intended, from the distant reaches of deepest Africa”. Tapper jumped up halfway through the spiel and yelled, “Well, bloody bring her out! I’ve summat here from Blackburn waiting for her!” It took three of us, mind, but we managed to get Tapper to sit down again and button his flies. Nowt would have come of it if some lard-arse next to us hadn’t said summat smart. Tapper only got to throw three or four punches before we were out on our ears. Never a dull moment wi’ Tapper.’
That much is true. Eddie Tapworth is the best tackler in the cotton shed. A giant of a man, he is built for the heavy job of lifting beams. He can keep his looms running all day. He’s not one of those tacklers who hang around making the weavers wait while they sort out a trapped or broken shuttle, or grumbling at Jack to chase up a shortage of spindles from the spinning rooms. Tapper sets to and does it himself. He could replace the used shuttles and put a fresh cop in faster than you could draw breath. He is one of the few tacklers who can reckon how much the shaft speed will increase when the leather drive belts from the looms shrink in the heat. If all the tacklers were as capable as Tapper, the foreman’s job would be a damn sight easier. When he’s sober, Jack has a good deal of time for Eddie Tapworth. But drunk it’s another matter. A few pints and Tapper would fight his own shadow if it followed him.
‘We’re off to the Winter Gardens tomorrow night,’ Dougie continues. ‘You’d like. It’s Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. Why don’t you come?’
Jack rubs the angle of his jaw and shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not that bothered, Dougie.’
‘Come on! You’ve not lost your taste for jazz! I’ve known a time when I couldn’t get you to play a waltz straight without jazzing it up. We lost work for the band because of it. You were Blackburn’s answer to Jack Teagarden.’
Jack’s expression is transformed by the memory. Laughter rumbles from deep in his chest while his grey eyes all but disappear above the curve of his cheekbones. He and Dougie got up to all sorts in the band before the war. He played trombone to Dougie’s trumpet. Jack had started off as bandleader – top hat, silk scarf, the lot. But it hadn’t taken long to sort out that it was the players who were getting all the girls. The bloke with the trombone in particular. Eddie Cummings couldn’t shift for skirt. When Jack promoted Eddie to bandleader and borrowed his trombone, things started looking up. Jack’s broad shoulders and ability to charm make him popular even now with the women. He may be in his late thirties but he takes care of himself. His blond hair is cut by the best barber in town and combed back into a series of shiny Brylcreemed tramlines.
‘No, I’ll give it a miss, Dougie. Kenny Ball’s a bit tame for me. I like the proper stuff – I saw Count Basie at the Tower a couple of years back. Cost an arm and a leg to get in, but it was worth every penny. Kenny Ball is just an amateur in comparison. I listened to a fair bit of jazz in Crete during the war.’
‘We were damn lucky to get Vera Lynn where I was stationed. Wasn’t it Crete where you met that bloke… the one that…?’
‘Yes. Nibs turned up one day with a gramophone and half a dozen jazz records. He’d brought them over from Greece. Got them from a black GI who was being posted back home. Only the Yanks would think to take a gramophone to war. I couldn’t get enough of it. The first time I heard Meade Lux Lewis playing “Honky Tonk Train Blues” I cracked out laughing.’
‘Aye, well, Kenny Ball’s the best Blackpool can come up with. You sure you won’t come?’
‘No, I’ll give it a miss. I promised to see Tom Bell tomorrow night.’
‘What? The Union bloke? Now isn’t that a surprise!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing serious. He just wants a chat.’
‘Chat my arse. He’ll have summat up his sleeve. I bet he’s got wind of Fosters’ offer.’
‘You haven’t said anything, have you, Dougie? Nobody is supposed to know. I haven’t even told Ruth. I’m still thinking about it.’
‘Why haven’t you told Ruth? I’d have thought you’d have wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Bloody hell, Jack, they’ve offered you the top job. Manager of Prospect Mill. What’s there to think about? It’ll more than double your pay packet overnight. Get her told.’
‘She’s been distracted with Beth. And anyway I haven’t said I’ll take the job.’
‘Then you want your bumps feeling, Jack. You should have bitten their hand off the minute it was offered. They should have made you up to manager years ago. You know more about cotton than all the Foster brothers put together.’
‘It’ll mean sitting behind a desk all day.’
‘You won’t catch Ruth complaining about that. I remember when we were kids on Bird Street. She had some fancy ideas even then. We used to tease the life out of her, but she’d never change her tune. She was going to get married, live in a beautiful house and have two children – a boy and a girl.’
‘That’s Ruth. Always knows exactly what she wants. But I still think I’d rather be busy in the weaving shed than sitting by myself in an office pushing papers around. I’ll get round to telling her. I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’
Jack shakes his head. ‘No, no. It’s something and nothing. Not worth bothering with.’
‘Well, think on. There’ll be merry hell to pay if she finds out you’ve been keeping secrets.’
Jack looks at his feet and moves his hand unconsciously up to the inside pocket of his jacket where he has hidden the letter. There are enough secrets in there to keep him busy for a fair bit and then some.
‘Anyway, how is she?’
Jack looks confused; his mind has been elsewhere. ‘Who?’
‘Your Ruth.’
Jack shakes his head. ‘She’s jiggered after all the upset with Beth. She didn’t want to come away for fear that Beth wouldn’t be up to it. We ended up having a barney about it. Ruth needs a holiday more than any of us. Still, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. The first thing she did when we got to the hotel was to set to and clean the washbasin.’
‘But Beth’s goin’ to be OK?’
‘Oh aye. Give her time, she’ll pull round. She’s a right little fighter.’
‘And how’s your Helen?’
Jack smiles. ‘Still pushing to leave school this summer. It’s the usual do – she’s sixteen going on twenty-five.’
‘They’re all the same. Our Doug is only a year older and he thinks he knows it all. Never satisfied. “He wants jam on it” as my old dad used to say. Talking of which, just take a look at this.’ Dougie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of fabric and hands it to Jack.
‘Where did you get this?’ Jack asks, turning the square over and back.
‘One of the lads from Whittaker’s. Says this is what they’re turning out nowadays.’
‘Are you sure Whittaker’s are weaving this?’
‘It’s right what I tell you. Look at the state of it. Lowest possible thread count and sized to glory.’
Jack runs his thumbnail across the surface of the dry, brittle fabric and a small cloud of white powder rises. ‘It must be hell to weave. There’s no movement in it, no give.’
‘There’s more elastic in a tart’s knickers.’
‘I can’t believe Whittaker’s are using such poor-quality cotton staple that they’ve had to glue it together. They never used to use anything less than Egyptian or Sea Island cotton.’
‘Times have changed, Jack. You know that as well as I do. There’s no pride left in the business.’
Dougie and Jack reach the pavement where they part, Dougie for breakfast at the nearest café, and Jack for a Daily Herald and twenty Senior Service.
On the way back from the newsagent’s Jack finds a bench on the prom, sits down and reaches for his cigarettes. The pack of untipped cigarettes is embossed in the centre with a picture of a brawny sailor. Jack runs his thumb over the familiar relief as he pushes open the pack and lights his first cigarette of the day. Smoking is barely tolerated at home. Jack may smoke in the backyard or, if it is raining, in the scullery. Tab ends to be disposed of directly into the ash bin. There isn’t an ashtray in the house and Ruth refuses to buy one. Numberless though her household duties may be, emptying ashtrays is not one of them. Alcohol is subject to similar restrictions. The single bottle of sherry is brought out every Christmas and returned untouched to the darkest recesses of the sideboard every New Year. Ruth is running a house, not a public bar. She is teetotal, has been since the Temperance Society marched down Bird Street with their banners flying.
Jack sighs and opens the paper, but he’s too distracted by memories of his friend to read. Nibs was barely five foot six, thin as a rake. He seemed to be in a permanent sweat. His skin shone like it was newly oiled and he couldn’t speak without using his hands to illustrate his point. He looked like a windmill in a gale when he got upset. He had run a pet shop in London before the war. A typical Cockney – loads of patter and plenty of old buck when things weren’t going his way. But he loved animals. It didn’t matter where they were, there’d be some mangy mongrel or moth-eaten cat at his heels. In Heraklion Nibs had put his hand halfway down an Alsatian’s throat to pull out a sliver of bone that was blocking the dog’s wind-pipe. The dog had promptly vomited and then nipped Nibs on the ankle as he was walking away. He’d always taken in strays and the fact that he was in the middle of a war didn’t make any difference. He argued that there wasn’t much to choose between dogs and men. ‘Sometimes, even with the best will in the world, you can’t save them and there’s no point in even trying. It’s kinder to have done and put them out of their bloody misery.’ The memory is a bitter one, considering how things turned out. Jack shakes himself and rubs his hand across his forehead as if to wipe away the memory. He lights another cigarette and stares out across the empty sands, a look of hopelessness on his face.
It is Gunner, the hotel dog, who finally rouses him. The dog wanders up out of nowhere and lodges his chin firmly on Jack’s knee. Gunner is a Lakeland terrier, his coat a scrunch of grey and brown wire wool. One eye is dimmed with a cataract but the other is bright and what’s left of his docked tail is permanently erect. Man and dog sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. The breeze freshens, shifting grains of sand across the pink flagstones and rippling the bunting tied to the promenade railings. Jack has spent Wakes Week at the Belvedere Hotel every year since the war and, as a result, is regarded as family by Gunner. Blackpool at the height of the holiday season might disturb and overexcite any ordinary dog, but Gunner is an old hand. It has been a long trip for Gunner from ‘unofficial South Lancs Regimental mascot’ to Mine Host at the Belvedere Hotel. The dog is subject to the unwelcome attention of passing children and his sleep is disturbed nightly by hotel guests in various states of inebriation gaining rowdy entry to the hotel lobby. Jack tickles the dog’s left ear before taking a last drag and flicking his cigarette over the promenade railings. Standing up, he proceeds to fold the newspaper into three and, putting it under his arm, heads back to the hotel. Gunner meanwhile continues his route march along the prom in search of last night’s chip papers.
‘Looks as if it’s going to be another hot one, Ruth,’ Jack says when he sees his wife in the lobby. His glance strays to Beth, who is already wriggling with the itchiness of her vest, liberty bodice and wool jumper. ‘Hasn’t she got a summer dress to wear?’
‘Not today,’ Ruth replies firmly. ‘It could turn cold again; the wind’s got a nip to it.’
‘Give over. I’ve been out there. It’s not cold, it’s fresh. It’ll do her good to get some sunshine.’
Beth runs up to her father and wraps her arms round his legs.
‘E-yo-yo, Sputnik!’
Jack bends down to pick Beth up. He puts his arm carefully round the back of her legs and lifts her gently. Beth might be fragile but the spell in hospital hasn’t curbed any of her curiosity. She spots the letter in his inside jacket pocket in a flash. ‘What’s this?’ she asks, her fingers closing round the corner of the letter.
‘Never mind that. Are you ready for your breakfast? Plenty of porridge, that’s what you need. It’ll make your hair curl,’ Jack says as he strokes back a fine brown strand that has escaped from her ribbon. ‘I’ll just nip upstairs and change my jacket – it’s too hot for tweed,’ he continues, turning to Ruth.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she replies. ‘I’ve left my scarf on the dressing table.’
‘No, you’re all right. I can pick it up at the same time.’
Once in the room, Jack reaches inside his jacket. The beige satin lining whispers conspiratorially against the thick envelope as he slides it out. He has had the letter for the best part of a week now and keeping it hidden is proving stressful. If he were at home there’d be no problem. Jack could have hidden it in his worksheets and textile patterns. As long as they’re neatly stacked Ruth never bothers with them; she’s no interest in loom specifications and the like. But here in Blackpool there’s nowhere safe to keep the letter. Not in the suitcase. Dear God, not in there. She’s in that case half a dozen times a day, pulling out fresh clothes for the girls and rearranging everything. She has a system. Everything in its place and a place for everything. At night she goes through all Jack’s clothes looking for loose buttons and dirty handkerchiefs. She empties the contents of his pockets on to a brass tray on the dressing table and puts his wallet on top. Finally she brushes down his jacket and, resisting the lure of the hotel wardrobe, hangs it up behind the door. As a result of her efficiency Jack has been driven to distraction – forever moving the letter from jacket to trousers as the situation demands. He had been keeping it in his shirt pocket until he noticed her eyeing him suspiciously at breakfast yesterday. Discretion being the better part of valour, he had retired to the toilet and moved it to his jacket pocket where he’d reckoned it was safe enough for a while. Now he takes the letter, folds it in half, pushes it in the back pocket of his trousers and does up the button. Manoeuvre completed, Jack takes off his jacket, collects Ruth’s scarf from the dressing table and locks the door behind him.
3 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
GANNETS
These are large seabirds with white feathers and black tips to their wings. They feed by plunging into the sea and catching fish with their long pointed bills. This habit of diving upon their food has led to their hungry reputation! Score 20 points for some greedy gannets.
Connie is run off her feet this morning. She has already seated an extra four families in the packed dining room when the Clegg family, six in total, turn up. ‘There’s a whole bloody tribe of them,’ she complains to Andy, the chef, ‘and I’ve only got a table for two left.’
Connie hasn’t worked as a silver service waitress before, but the manager of the Belvedere knows a crowd pleaser when he sees one. Connie turned up on his doorstep a couple of weeks earlier and was offered the job on the spot. The Belvedere is very classy, a dream come true for Connie. Her last job was at Stan’s Café, where she worked every weekend. She served behind the counter mostly, but she had to cook as well on Sundays if Stan wasn’t feeling up to it. It was Stan who taught her how to carry seven plates at once. She’d got the knack eventually, but not before she’d turned up at school on a fair few Monday mornings with a giant plaster on the inside of her left wrist. Connie is a cracker, in more ways than one. She’d caused such a sensation at the café that the place was packed with lads every weekend waiting for her to lean over the counter or drop a fork. Connie is just that sort of girl. Her scarlet overall looked decent enough on the hanger when Stan gave it to her, but when she put it on there was something about her curves that resisted confinement. And what with the hotplates and ovens going full blast behind her, it was only natural that she should loosen the collar. Connie sees no problem in the degree of male attention she excites despite, or perhaps because of, the ladders in her stockings and the buttons missing from her bodice. Stan offered her full-time work when she left school, but Connie had bigger fish to fry. She’d heard that you could pick up seasonal work in Blackpool. What could be better than spending the whole summer in Blackpool and being paid for it to boot? Stan was sad to see her go. Still, Stan’s loss is the Belvedere’s gain.
The hotel supplies its waitresses with a black uniform and a white frilly apron with a delicate pin-tucked front fixed at nipple level with tiny gold safety pins. Black stilettos and seamed stockings complete the outfit, along with a wisp of lace that passes for a hat, which is secured to the back of the head with white kirby grips. Connie is friendly and easygoing by nature, and has already proved a big hit with the head chef, Andy. It is Andy who yells at the deputy manager to put up another table and find an extra couple of chairs sharpish, and Andy who advises Connie to put the Cleggs in the alcove. If Connie hesitates it’s because her new friend Helen’s family usually sit there. But Andy is adamant. He has her best interests at heart.
When she arrives in the palatial dining room Mrs Singleton is at first confused and then annoyed to see that the large table in its own private alcove (where the family has sat every day since their arrival last Saturday) is no longer available. Far from it. A family of six is occupying their table, leaving the Singletons no other option but to cram themselves round a tiny table inched in between the alcove and walkway. This new location not only affords them unwelcome glimpses into the kitchen with its blasts of steam and bad language, but, worse still, forces them into close proximity with the very people who stole their table in the first place. Jack sizes up the situation and, accepting that there is no alternative, indicates that they should all sit at the new table.
Ruth remains standing, staring furiously at the interlopers. The family appear not to have noticed but the moment Ruth finally relents and sits, the wife, a large florid woman with broad capable hands, pipes up, ‘Have we got your table? It was the waitress what put us here. She said it were the only way what with there being so many of us and needing two high chairs for the twins. Do you want us to move?’ All this said with the confidence of a woman who, once settled, even the H bomb wouldn’t shift.
Ruth turns her head away and it is left to Jack to reply. ‘No, no. It doesn’t matter. We’ll sit here instead. There’s room for everyone,’ he says, raising his voice to cover the rustle of the letter in his trouser pocket when he sits down. ‘It’s Full English Breakfast wherever you sit!’
‘You’re right there,’ replies the husband. He turns halfway round in his chair and offers Jack his hand. ‘Fred Clegg,’ he says and tilts his head in the direction of the florid woman. ‘And that’s the wife, Florrie.’
Jack nods at Florrie and shakes hands with Fred.
‘We got here last night. We’re still finding our feet,’ continues Fred.
‘Well, it looks as if you’ve brought the sunshine with you,’ Jack says as he turns his attention to the breakfast menu.
‘From over Blackburn way, are you?’ Fred asks.
‘Aye.’
‘I thought I’d seen you around. I never forget a face. Where do you…?’
But Jack, aware that the next question will be about work, interrupts: ‘You’re from the town then, are you?’
‘Aye.’
During this exchange Ruth has had a good look at the Clegg family. The husband looks dishevelled, from the worn elbows of his brown cardigan to his nylon shirt that strains across a lovingly maintained beer belly. Ruth wouldn’t dream of buying a nylon shirt. There’s no need for nylon unless you’re too lazy to iron. And as for all this craze for drip-dry – anybody with any sense knows that a good cotton twill will resist wrinkling and barely needs ironing. But Mrs Clegg doesn’t look as if she’d care. She’s wearing a faded blue dress with white polka dots. The dress is deliberately shapeless yet its generous gathers struggle to disguise her overwhelming bulk. The material stretches over unwanted curves and catches between rolls of excess. Only the eldest boy is decently dressed, the twins and the younger lad are in little better than rags. All her worst fears confirmed, Ruth turns and looks out of the window. High winds laden with salt spray have eaten away at the exterior paintwork. Ruth suspects it would only take a single swipe from a scrubbing brush to remove the lot but you’d risk removing the window at the same time. There isn’t an ounce of decent putty left on the frame. No wonder it’s draughty.
‘We’ve not stayed here before,’ Fred volunteers. ‘We usually stay at Mrs Thornber’s boarding house down at South Shore. Nearer for the Pleasure Beach. Three meals a day and less than half the price of this place. But what with one thing and another, we’d left it too late for Mrs Thornber’s. So we thought we’d have a couple of days here instead. Makes a change.’
‘Oh, you’ll like it here. It’s good plain food at the Belvedere and there’s a bar every night,’ replies Jack, who is momentarily distracted by the quality of the damask tablecloth. He turns the material over and back a few times remarking the precision of the surface pattern in reverse, speculating as to the thread count. He runs his nail across the grain of the fabric to assess how much of the stiffness of the cloth is due to the weave and how much to the application of starch. Jack learned long ago that once you start looking at weaves it’s difficult to break the habit.
Fred sits back in his chair and looks around the dining room. The walls are covered in flock wallpaper: deep burgundy acanthus leaves against a pale plum background. The room itself is bisected by a series of white pillars that support a ceiling heavy with ornate plasterwork and oversized ceiling roses. It’s what holidaymakers come to the Belvedere for – a bit of luxury. The hotel is fully booked and the room hums with the sound of mill workers and their families tucking into a three-course breakfast and making the best of an English summer.
Florrie Clegg beams at Ruth and says, ‘It looks a nice place, this.’
Ruth looks unconvinced. She has noticed a slow but irreversible decline in standards over the years. Still, any hotel that can entertain that couple in room sixty-nine – the salesman and his ‘wife’ – is already well on its way to perdition without any further help from the Cleggs. And as for the ‘good plain food’ – that’s a matter of opinion.
Shortly after they were married Ruth made Eggs Florentine. Jack stared at the eggs and spinach lavishly topped with a classic cheese sauce (made properly, mind you, with a flour and butter roux) and said, ‘What sort of concoction is this? You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Ruth. What’s wrong with broth on a Tuesday?’
Ruth may have crossed Eggs Florentine off the menu but she is still determined to use some of the fancy recipes she and her best friend Cora collected at night school. Cora always said that the French names alone were enough to make her mouth water (Poulet Bonne Femme, Moules Marinières, Boeuf Bourguignon). They’d both had a good laugh about the pronunciation. Cora had a talent for making French sound suggestive. She’d thought up a whole list of things that ‘Moules Marinières’ might possibly mean – including sailors’ balls – until Ruth had blushed and covered her mouth with her hand. Despite her attachment to French cuisine Ruth is quite happy to leave out the garlic and downright glad to substitute water for wine. She has learned that it is no good putting Jack’s tea in front of him and saying ‘This is Quiche Lorraine’ – he is a sight less suspicious if she says, ‘I thought we’d have egg and bacon pie today.’ Or ‘I’ve picked up some fresh mussels from the market. I thought they’d make a change, boiled with a bit of onion.’ He will set to and eat the lot until the bowl rattles with the scrape of empty shells and his fingers glisten with butter and flakes of fresh parsley. Ruth is running culinary circles around Jack. And as long as she only does it once or twice a week, Jack is prepared to let her.
Further conversation is abandoned as the two families order breakfast. Connie scribbles the orders down in her pad and disappears through the swing doors into the kitchen. Ruth has a set of rules garnered for the most part from Good Housekeeping and the writings of Elizabeth Craig. Rules are Ruth’s sheet anchor in the troubled seas of marriage and child rearing. Over the years she has developed an encyclopedic knowledge of how to behave – table manners and etiquette being foremost in her present considerations. A glance down the table confirms that her daughters are behaving as she would expect in a public place. Their voices are suitably moderated, their spoons half filled from the far edge of the cereal bowls, their elbows well in and their movements slow. Ruth watches Connie clearing the cereal plates from the Cleggs’ table minutes after having served them.
‘Just look at that family. Have you seen how they eat?’ Ruth whispers to Jack. ‘They’re like a bunch of gannets. I’m surprised they bother with knives and forks. I’ve never seen anyone eat that fast.’
Beth taps her mother’s hand. ‘Can I have a drink, Mummy? I’m thirsty. Can I have orange juice like the other people?’ Beth pokes a pale finger at the Cleggs.
Ruth shakes her head. There is nothing to drink other than a pot of tea. It is Ruth’s first job, when she reaches the table every morning, to hand the jug of orange juice back to the waitress. Ruth does not hold with tinned juice, be it orange, grapefruit, or apple. Whole fresh fruit is to be preferred at all times. Water is not an acceptable alternative. Elizabeth is so clumsy she’d spill it.
‘You’ll have to wait until you get back to the room. I can’t be having you making a mess,’ Ruth replies.
The Cleggs appear to have no such qualms; their jug of juice disappears within minutes of their arrival and is refilled. This is promptly followed by demands for tea, toast and marmalade to keep the family going while they wait for the main course. The Full English arrives with another pot of tea and extra toast. Fred Clegg sighs and says to his sons, ‘Wire in, lads.’ As if they needed telling.
Fred and Jack go on to chat about the weather forecast and Florrie turns to Ruth. ‘What a pretty daughter you have,’ she says, casting her eye over Helen. ‘And how old is your little boy?’
Ruth feigns deafness and Florrie has to raise her voice in order to be heard over the noise of the twins nudging and pushing each other, and stealing food from each other’s plates.
Ruth gives her a frosty look. ‘Are you referring to my daughters?’
‘Oh, it’s a little girl! I’m such a fool. I should have known. It was the brown shorts that threw me. What’s your name, pet?’
Beth is not allowed to speak to strangers. She looks to her mother for permission. Ruth inclines her head – a nod imperceptible to outsiders – and Beth replies, ‘Beth.’
‘Elizabeth,’ her mother interrupts. ‘I don’t hold with all this shortening of names. It’s lazy.’
‘Well, long or short, it’s a pretty name. And how old are you?’
‘Seven. And my sister is sixteen.’
‘Well,’ says Florrie, turning to Ruth, ‘aren’t they grand? You must be very proud of them. There’s the same gap between my lads as there is between your girls. ‘Rob’ – she points to a sallow-skinned boy who is wearing an Indian headdress with three feathers – ’is nine.’
The boy pulls a packet of Barrett’s Sweet Cigarettes from the pocket of his grey shorts and, extracting a cigarette, he taps the end on the front of the packet and lodges it in the side of his mouth. When he is assured that he has Beth’s shocked attention he inhales deeply, glares at his mother and says, ‘I’m called Red Hawk.’
Florrie ignores him and continues, ‘There’s the twins, of course. And my eldest, Alan. He’s eighteen. Training as a clerk,’ Florrie remarks with some pride.
Helen glances sideways at Alan. He is leaning back in his chair drinking his tea and flicking the ash from his tipped cigarette into the saucer. He is a remarkably sharp dresser, from his wide-checked blue gingham shirt to his white socks and shiny slip-on shoes. His hands are small but clean, the nails well manicured. He is shaved and scrubbed to such an extent that his neck glows red against his collar. His ginger hair is parted precisely on the left and combed into a solid quiff. Helen is impressed. Aware of her attention, Alan pulls out a large leather wallet and flicks it open to reveal serried ranks of fivers, pounds and ten-shilling notes. Helen immediately looks away, but this calculated display of wealth earns a wink from the passing Connie.
The Cleggs have finished their breakfast but seem unwilling to leave the dining room. Their table looks like a bombsite. The cloth is crumpled and smeared with butter, and there’s dirty cutlery everywhere but on the plate, while only the folded napkins remain pristine. The Singletons’ table is an oasis of order and calm in comparison.
Florrie relaxes and pours herself another cup of tea. After a few moments she arches her back against the wooden chair and addresses Ruth. ‘How long are you here for, Ruth?’
‘We leave on Saturday,’ Ruth replies and busies herself with collecting the used napkins. She is relieved when Red Hawk’s demand for some spending money interrupts the conversation. Florrie takes two sixpences out of her purse. She gives them both to the boy and whispers in his ear. Red Hawk nods and, before Ruth can put a stop to it, he has given Beth a sixpence.
‘There’s really no need, Mrs Clegg,’ Ruth says. ‘Elizabeth already has some spending money.’
‘Oh, call me Florrie,’ Mrs Clegg insists. ‘Well, it’s the least I could do after my silly mistake. It’s only a sixpence. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to spend it on, won’t you, pet?’
Beth looks at the sixpence in disbelief – this is twice as much as the spending money she gets every Saturday. Aware of the extravagance, she holds her breath, awaiting her mother’s intervention, but there is silence. When Beth finally tears her eyes away from the sixpence and looks up, her mother glares at her and says, ‘What do you say, Elizabeth?’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers and wraps the coin carefully in her best handkerchief. Sixpence will buy a Range Rider Lucky Bag, a tuppenny sherbet fountain and a liquorice Catherine wheel with a pink sweet in the middle. Besides the usual sweets and cards all Lucky Bags have a toy inside – with a bit of luck Beth might get a monkey on a stick instead of the usual whistle.
Outflanked by Florrie’s generosity, Ruth is reduced to tightening her lips and watching, with mounting disapproval, as Red Hawk slides up and down the varnished walkway in his stocking feet. Beth is transfixed by his misbehaviour. He is wearing three feathers stuck in a rubber band round his head. His thick grey school shorts are ripped at the pocket and worn to a greasy shine on the bottom. Round his waist is a red and blue elastic belt that fastens at the front with a snake clasp, though it is not much use keeping his shorts up since the waistband is missing two of the belt holders. Beth is impressed. Red Hawk has several club badges pinned to his jumper. Beth has been trying to join clubs for the past year. All she’s managed so far is the Golliwog Club, and she isn’t really a member of that until her mother has finished sufficient jars of jam to send off for a badge. Beth has been campaigning for a golliwog pirate badge – much more exciting than the golly bus conductor or, worse still, the golly golfer. Red Hawk is wearing a Cub badge. Beth had harboured hopes of joining the Brownies but Brown Owl only wants Brownies who can join in the various activities like dancing in a circle round a papier-mâché owl on a toadstool and going away to Brownie camp. There’s the Girl Adventurers’ Club, but it’s not very adventurous. Unless you count always being polite to adults and kind to sick animals exciting. There’s Uncle Mac’s Children’s Favourites Club, but that’s hardly exclusive; anyone can join just by switching on the wireless.
Red Hawk has already bumped into one table and got tomato ketchup down his front, and now he’s shooting a bow and arrow at the ceiling. When he knocks over and smashes a couple of side plates his mother gives him a fond look and says, by way of explanation, ‘You have to let them have their heads. It’s only once a year. Holidays are holidays, aren’t they?’
Breakfast is finished by the time the couple from room sixty-nine appear. Jack has spoken to him in the bar once or twice. He’s a travelling salesman and Ruth reckons his ‘wife’ is out to get what she can – which will be a fair amount if you look at the way she’s dressed. All she ever has for breakfast is dry toast and straight black coffee. Not, Ruth notes, that it stays straight for long. He’s forever pulling out a hip flask of whisky to put a kick in it. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he says with a wide grin.
There’s some winking and groping under the table before she says, ‘Behave yourself, Harry. What will people think?’ It’s obvious from his reply that he couldn’t care less. He has a laugh like Sid James.
Breakfast complete, Jack and Fred Clegg wander into the Residents’ Lounge for a cigarette, deep in conversation about whether or not Blackburn will make the cup final next season. The eldest boy, Alan, remains seated next to his mother but his attention is concentrated on the other side of the dining room where Connie and Helen are standing.
‘Our Alan works for an accountant,’ Florrie tells Ruth.
‘Turf?’
‘Oh no, a proper accountant. With a fancy office and everything. Our Alan has been there for the past couple of years since he left school. It’s a responsible job. They rely on our Alan to do the local deliveries in the morning. It’s very serious. Some of those letters have statements, bonds, or even cheques inside. The senior partner, Mr Tyson, calls our Alan his right-hand man. And he’s a smasher at home. So good with the twins. They listen to every word he says.’
Florrie lifts the occupants of the two high chairs – a couple of heavy, flat-faced three-year-olds with matching sagging lower lips and dull grey eyes. Freed from restraint, the twins immediately fall into a fight, which progresses out of the dining room, through the lobby and looks set to continue into the street. It only stops when one twin cracks his skull against the sign that reads: ‘Guests are requested to ensure that their footwear is free of sand before entering the hotel.’ The infant bursts into tears and howls with such ferocity that his twin feels compelled to join in.
Deaf to the uproar, Beth watches entranced as Red Hawk continues to crawl around the dining room. When he disappears into the lobby Beth asks to be excused from the table and gets down from her chair. She moves to the doorway of the dining room and peeps into the lobby. Red Hawk is still shooting arrows. When one falls at her feet she picks it up. Close to she can see that he has a green and white I-Spy badge pinned to his collar. Beth solemnly strokes her cheek three times. Red Hawk signals back. A friendship is formed.
‘Are you a proper Red Indian brave?’ the boy asks. Beth nods eagerly. ‘Where are your flippin’ feathers then?’ Beth looks blank. ‘Look.’ The boy points to his headband. ‘I’ve got three feathers.’ He points to each of them in turn and says, ‘This one’s for I-Spy Birds, the middle one’s for I-Spy in the Street, and this one at the end is for I-Spy Car Numbers. I’m on my fourth now. And I’m head of the Wild Jaguars tribe. What tribe do you belong to?’
‘I haven’t got a tribe yet, but I’ve got this.’ Beth extracts I-Spy at the Seaside from her pocket and pushes it under his nose.
He barely glances at it before he hands it back. ‘That one looks too easy – I’m doing I-Spy Buses and Coaches now. They’re more difficult but I bet I finish the whole book by Saturday.’
Beth is unable to give Red Hawk’s achievements her full attention since she has spotted Gunner relieving himself against one of the impressive magnolia pillars at the hotel entrance. She has spent hours trying to make friends with Gunner. Beth is not allowed a dog of her own. She has asked her mother for one countless times, but the answer is always the same. Dogs are far too dirty to keep, they carry fleas and ticks, along with all sorts of diseases and they don’t care where they make a mess. There being no hope of acquiring a dog of her own, Beth is therefore on permanent lookout for a dog she can adopt. She is fearless in her pursuit, despite having once been bitten by a poodle on Halifax Road. Beth is convinced that Gunner can be persuaded into allowing her to stroke him if she is persistent enough. But Gunner is not amenable to approach. His tolerance for children as a subspecies is substantially below zero and remains so despite having been severely tested by Beth’s persistent kindness and relentless affection.
Beth, ignorant of the dog’s pathological hatred of children, still believes that she can make friends with Gunner. ‘Here, Gunner. You’d like a stroke, wouldn’t you?’ Gunner doesn’t look convinced. Beth, hand outstretched, creeps forward. Unable to whistle like the boy in Lassie, Beth is reduced to making clicking noises with her tongue and purring, ‘Here, Gunner. There’s a good boy. Here, Gunner. Here, boy.’
Beth and Red Hawk watch as Gunner bolts past them in the direction of the hotel kitchens. ‘I’ll get him for you,’ says Red Hawk, loading his bow with the remaining arrow and aiming at the dog’s retreating backside.
‘No,’ shouts Beth, grabbing the arrow. ‘I’ll never make friends with him if you hurt him.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ volunteers Red Hawk. ‘That bugger bloody bit me when I pulled his tail. I wouldn’t care but it were only a joke.’
Back in the dining room, Connie is clearing the tables. She and Helen have become good friends over the past few days. They can be found giggling together in a corner somewhere most mornings once the dining room empties. Connie sneaks a swift cigarette and a milky coffee, while Helen listens open-mouthed to the waitress’s salacious account of the previous evening’s activities. Connie is forever encouraging Helen to accompany her on these soirées but so far she has drawn a blank. She may be a couple of months younger but she has a wealth of experience hitherto denied Helen. Even Helen’s Saturday job in a dress shop can’t compete with Connie’s obvious experience.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ whispers Connie at her most confidential. ‘Kitchen and dining-room staff get two hours off every afternoon. We all go out together. Why don’t you come with us? We usually meet up at the pier for a drink and a laugh. It’s a scream. Andy bought me four Babychams yesterday afternoon and I was seeing double by the time I got back.’
‘I can’t,’ Helen says. ‘I’m not allowed on the pier.’
‘What? Even during the day? Hellfire! My dad’s in Strangeways and even he gets let out every now and again.’
Helen is embarrassed. Not just because her parents treat her like a child but also for her friend having a dad in prison, but it doesn’t seem to bother Connie.
‘You’re lucky to have a dad like yours. He’s great, isn’t he?’ Connie sighs and casts a glance over at Jack.
‘He’s OK, I suppose. He’s not as strict as my mother.’
‘She’s like bloody Hitler. However did she get her claws into your dad? I mean, he’s good-looking enough to get anyone he wanted. He doesn’t even look old, does he?’ Connie changes the subject when she sees the look of disbelief on Helen’s face. ‘Anyway, what’s the gossip about that new bloke?’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Wonderful in the check shirt on your old table. Go on, what’s the gossip? Spill the beans, Helen.’
‘I don’t know a lot – he’s called Alan and he works for an accountant.’
‘Oh, very fancy! Did you see him flashing his wallet around?’
‘Yes.’ Helen is awestruck by such a display of wealth.
‘I saw him. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
Helen blushes. ‘Well, I’m not interested in him. Well, I mean, he’s all right.’
‘Would you go out with him if he asked?’
‘I might.’
‘I thought you said you had a boyfriend at home?’
‘I have,’ Helen replies, trying to sound casual. She has been forced to invent a boyfriend with whom she is ‘going steady’ in order to deflect Connie’s constant queries as to why she doesn’t go out at night.
‘Ah, well, a bit on the side won’t do any harm. What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over. That’s what my mum always says when she’s out with a new bloke. I’ll bet Mr Wonderful over there would give his right arm to take you out. Oh, God! He’s looking this way.’
Helen is forced to put her hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter. Far away, at the other end of the dining room, Alan looks on.
‘I know what! If you can’t come on the pier with me why don’t we go to that new coffee bar?’
‘Where?’ Helen asks.
‘Rico’s. That one on Victoria Street, just behind the Tower. I went there with Andy last week – he’d fixed it so that we both had the same day off. There’s a great jukebox and they serve that frothy coffee. Your mum can’t object to you having a cup of coffee, can she? Let’s go this afternoon.’
‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘You know where my room is, don’t you? Through the Staff door in the lobby, down the stairs and it’s on the right. I’ll see you there at half past two.’
‘I know Blackburn like the back of my hand,’ Florrie says. ‘Which part of the town do you come from?’
‘Oh, we’re on the outskirts,’ Ruth replies as she hurries to finish her tea.
‘Oh?’ Florrie thinks she might have cottoned on to something. The silence that follows is deafening. When it’s obvious that Ruth has no intention of supplying further details Florrie starts again: ‘You’re a long way out of the centre, are you? A terrace, is it?’
Ruth nods by way of reply. She neglects to mention that the house is an end terrace. It is not in Ruth’s nature to be boastful, particularly with strangers. Both women know perfectly well that there’s a class hierarchy in terraced life. The further out of town, the better the terrace. The Singletons own an end terrace. It might as well be a semi. Ruth has only one immediate neighbour – although with the noise the Kerkleys make it sometimes sounds as if she’s got more. The Singletons’ end terrace is situated at the tree-lined town boundary, overlooking the town below and the moors beyond. It is, to quote the estate agent Ruth has had round recently, ‘a little gem’.
‘I lived on Le-banon Street before I was wed,’ Florrie volunteers. Ruth’s face is a picture of restraint. ‘They’re a good crowd on Lebanon,’ Florrie continues.
Ruth bites her lip. She is not only capable of pronouncing the name Lebanon correctly, she could point to the country on a map and quote freely from the Bible on the subject.
‘So, whereabouts on the tops are you? Anywhere near the Black Bull?’
It is a common habit locally to tie the location of anything in the town to the nearest pub. Ruth is not prey to this habit. She allows herself a vague ‘m-m-m’ as she replaces her cup in the saucer.
‘Oh, they’re all pastry forks and bay windows up there, aren’t they? Wouldn’t suit me. No, I like to be in the thick of things. I like to know what’s going on. Don’t you find it a nuisance being so far out of town? It means a lot of travelling,’ Florrie says as she’s sweetening her Alan’s second cup of tea for him.
‘It’s nice and quiet on the tops,’ Ruth replies, biting back the urge to say that it’s worth a six-penny bus journey to be away from dirty backstreets and the stink of mill chimneys.
‘There,’ Florrie says after she’s taken an exploratory sip, ‘that’s just nice.’ She passes the sweetened cup of tea over to Alan. Ruth can sense her nose turning up. She’s seen her mother do it countless times for her father; indeed, Ruth might have sweetened and sipped Jack’s tea herself had she not seen the light at night school. Quite apart from what constitutes good table manners, the practice is unhealthy and encourages the migration of germs. Elizabeth Craig is adamant about this.
‘They’re building some new houses up there, aren’t they?’ Florrie remarks casually.
‘Where?’
‘Up on the Boundary. Three-bedroom semis. I told Fred, I said, “They’ll never sell them! Who’d pay a fortune to live that far out of town?” It’s not even a local builder, is it?’
‘No, I don’t think it is.’
Florrie gives Ruth a shrewd look and says, ‘Got your eye on one of them, have you?’
This is an understatement. Ruth has not only got an eye on one of the new semis, she’s got a copy of the plans and the deposit as well. Not that she would ever admit to this. Talk of the semi involves two forbidden subjects: family and money. Ruth gets up from the table, anxious to make her escape.
‘She’s small for seven, your little girl. You did say she was seven, didn’t you? She looks nearer five to me. Very quiet, isn’t she?’
Ruth has heard the same from Beth’s teacher at school. ‘You know, Mrs Singleton,’ the teacher had ventured, ‘Beth, er, I mean Elizabeth is a bit too quiet, if you see what I mean. I’ve known children who appear quiet. But they’re not really. They’re hiding for some reason. They imagine if they’re quiet no one will notice them. Someone or something has frightened them. Have you noticed anything?’
‘Nothing,’ Ruth had replied with a firm shake of the head.
‘Well, she may not be breaking her toys or screaming, but this doesn’t mean she hasn’t got problems. She’s likely to tell you if you find the time to ask and listen to what she says.’ Seeing the expression on Ruth’s face, the teacher had added, ‘Well, perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe all she needs is a good cuddle and some reassurance. All of us could do with that, couldn’t we?’
The teacher had said all this in such a caring and reasonable tone that Ruth had been quite worried about it. Until, that is, she sat down and thought about it. Then she realised that it was all nonsense. Elizabeth is obedient because that’s the way she’s been brought up. Ruth expects her to be quiet and polite at all times. Who wants a cheeky daughter who’s forever shouting and misbehaving? Ruth stopped calling in at school after that. But the accusation still makes her angry.
Faced with Florrie’s comment, Ruth pushes her chair firmly back under the table. She gives Mrs Clegg a bleak, tight-lipped look but Florrie continues, ‘The poor mite. She’s so thin and pale. She looks as if she could do with plenty of good food and a nice bit of sunshine, wouldn’t you say?’
Ruth ignores the remark. She heads out into the lobby where there is a brief exchange of views between mother and daughter before Beth drops the newly won sixpence into a collection box for the local disabled.
Blackburn, November 1958
The revelation of Beth’s illness came as a direct result of Mrs Richmond having syringed her husband’s ears and thus rendered audible to him the heart whisper, the rhythmic sigh of a leaking valve and phantom echo of escaping pressure, that had accompanied the Singletons’ younger daughter throughout her six years. Beth stands before the old doctor as her mother peels off the layers of jumper and blouse, liberty bodice and vest. Dr Richmond places two pallid fingers above her shoulder blade and raps them sharply with the crooked fingers of his left hand. The exercise is repeated over the child’s back, Beth alive to the uneasy vibration and flinching away from the discomfort when her chest is sounded. Dr Richmond reaches for his stethoscope, places the steel nodes in his ear and rubs the bright circle on the palm of his hand. There is complete silence. Ruth presses her lips together, too frightened to breathe, resisting the urge to join in while Beth inhales and exhales to order. Both mother and child pant briefly when the stethoscope examination is concluded, Ruth for oxygen and Beth with pain.
Dr Richmond removes the stethoscope from his neck with deliberation and folds it carefully until the ancient black rubber settles into its accustomed cracks. Ruth immediately stiffens in the hard-backed chair she has been occupying since she and her younger daughter were summoned from their sojourn in the doctor’s waiting room – a two-hour wait during which Ruth had silently rehearsed all the reasons why she mistrusts the good doctor. If he’d been faster off the mark when she’d come to see him about her stomach pains back in 1950 she might have carried the child to full term. Of course, she doesn’t have any proof that it was a boy that she lost at thirteen weeks. But Ruth knows, as clearly as any real mother would know, that it was a boy. Sitting again in the same room waiting to see the same doctor, she had felt the old anger rising.
Dr Richmond sighs and says, ‘You can get this bonny little girl dressed again now.’
Ruth has recognised a number of traits in Elizabeth since birth, but ‘bonny’ is not one of them. It makes no difference how well she feeds Elizabeth, the child remains weak and tires easily. Her shoulders are permanently hunched over her chest, she sweats too easily and she still asks to be carried up hills. It is a back-breaking task for a woman over forty. Ruth has resisted seeing the doctor before now. Her relationship with old Dr Richmond is not an easy one.
In order to cover her impatience Ruth now busies herself with dressing the child, stretching the wool vest over her head and struggling with the curling rubber buttons on the Ladybird liberty bodice.
When decency is restored Dr Richmond ventures his professional opinion. ‘There might be a slight problem, Mrs Singleton,’ he says. This example of kindly understatement is characteristic of Dr Richmond. He has had cause on many occasions, when delivering bad news to anxious mothers, to adopt a certain reassuring ignorance of fatal consequences. He has no cures for pneumoconiosis (a familiar complaint among the miners at Bank Hall Colliery) or pulmonary embolism, or parietal gliomas, or any one of the number of terminal conditions he is forced to witness within the space of a single day. The varnish of confident infallibility afforded to the newly qualified has worn away over the years to reveal his humanity in all its uncertainty and inadequacy. He spends his mornings on call. His white starched cuffs are stained brown with iodine and rasp against his wrists as he takes pulses, measures blood pressures, pinches swollen ankles and tests stubborn joints. He rubs the folds of his softening jowls as he considers prescriptions or waits for the arrival of the ambulance. By late evening he has listened to a litany of complaints and drunk his way through all manner of liquid that passes for tea in the houses of the poor.
Only then does he return home to the silent remembrances of former patients. His house bulges with mortuary gifts: gold watches, pipe stands, copies of the Bible and amateur paintings of local landmarks. Patients leave wills that afford him war medals from battles fought in the Mediterranean or North Africa while he was busy delivering the next generation in the cold austerity of Bank Hall Maternity Home. Financial bequests from wealthier patients are spent on repairs to the roof of his surgery, coal fires in his waiting room, lollipops for his infant patients, outstanding rent for miners laid up with lung disease and weavers laid off with mill closures.
Ruth is aware of Dr Richmond’s reputation but, since she is not in need of charity or sympathy, she persists in her interrogation. ‘What is wrong with her?’
‘A slight chest irregularity. Probably minor, nothing to be anxious about. I have a colleague who might have a look at her. Mr Tomlinson at the hospital.’
‘He’s a heart man, isn’t he? Is it her heart? What’s wrong with it?’
‘It might be a circulation problem. You yourself have noticed she’s breathless sometimes. I thought I heard a slight whisper when I listened to her chest, but I could be mistaken. We doctors aren’t infallible.’
‘What do you mean, a whisper?’
‘Let’s wait until Mr Tomlinson has seen her, shall we? Then we’ll be sure what we’re talking about.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘I’ll have a word with him first thing tomorrow. He’s a good man. Can you take this little girl up tomorrow around two o’clock? Save all the bother of waiting for an appointment. Now I must get on, there are patients waiting to be seen.’
Ruth quits the surgery with some reluctance. She senses that there is something seriously wrong, but can get no further with old Richmond. She is too clever to be misled by his diagnostic hesitation, or the sudden availability of a hospital appointment. There is something wrong with her daughter and only Ruth’s iron restraint in the company of strangers keeps her from crying in the queue for the bus home.
4 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
SHORE CRAB
This crab often hides under the sand with just his eyes and feelers showing and so he may be difficult to spot. He can also appear unexpectedly from under a stone but beware! The green and black shore crab has two very sharp pincer claws; once he latches on to something he won’t let go! Score 20 for an unexpected appearance.
‘Bloomin’ ’eck, Ruth, how much longer?’ Jack has been hauling three deckchairs around the sands for all of twenty minutes while his wife searches for a suitable location. The perfect spot has to be at the furthest possible point from the pier (roughnecks), sewage outlets (polio) and any patch of sand that has even a trace of tar. It’s not an easy task. Jack’s patience, along with the muscles in his right arm, is stretched to the limit. It is only when Ruth stops, turns and begins to retrace her steps along the beach that Jack drops the three deckchairs, windbreak and bags in the sand and says, ‘That’s it! This’ll do, Ruth.’
Ruth looks unconvinced. She stops and assures herself that they are still some distance from the sea. This is important if they are to get their money’s worth out of the deckchairs. But it is only when she catches sight of the hordes of holidaymakers flooding down on to the beach behind her that she nods in agreement and Jack sighs with relief.
Jack puts up the deckchairs and windbreak, while Ruth unpacks the bags. Thus engaged, it is too late by the time they notice Mr and Mrs Sykes to take avoidance measures. Harry and Irene Sykes are, to quote their favourite expression, ‘bang up to date’ as only childless couples in their thirties can ever hope to be. Harry, sporting a pair of black winkle-picker shoes and green drainpipe trousers, sidles up. He has an extravagant quiff that teeters in the wind, and sideburns a good couple of inches longer than is decent for a man his age. Harry is foreman at Alexandria, a mill owned by Foster Brothers, the same company that employs Jack. He and Harry Sykes have known each other since Jack joined the firm but they have rarely, if ever, seen eye to eye. Despite this, Harry Sykes puts down his deckchairs next to Jack and says, ‘Fancy seeing you here, Jack. Mind if we join you?’
‘Of course not, Harry,’ Jack replies, suppressing the urge to bolt. Ruth meanwhile gives the interlopers the briefest of nods, then turns her back and begins to empty her grey tartan shopping bag of towels, sun cream, knitting and this week’s copy of Woman’s Own.
Irene Sykes perches prettily on the edge of the deckchair that Harry has assembled for her with a single flick of his wrist. She puts the white stilettos she has been carrying since she reached the sands under her chair, opens her handbag and pulls out a pink enamelled compact decorated with the silhouette of a black poodle. She checks her lipstick in the mirror first, using a brightly varnished nail to wipe away the inevitable smudges of matching pink lipstick from the corners of her mouth. Snapping the compact smartly shut, she flashes Jack a brilliant smile. In present company Irene may have both youth and beauty on her side, but still she regards Ruth with a careful eye. ‘Hello, Mrs Singleton,’ she ventures. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
‘And how’s little Beth. Getting better now, is she?’ Irene gives the child a look of heartfelt concern. Beth is wearing a blue mohair coat that ends just above her grey ankle socks and her head is wrapped in a yellow scarf.
‘Elizabeth is very well, thank you,’ Ruth replies in a tone designed to stifle any further questions.
‘Poor little mite.’ Mrs Sykes bends down and tickles Beth under her chin. ‘I knew you when you were a tiny baby.’
Beth gives Mrs Sykes her whole attention.
‘Your mum used to bring you to Baby Clinic every Tuesday. You were so good, you never cried. I had to weigh you every week to make sure that you were putting on enough weight and then write everything down in a special file. She was very late walking, wasn’t she, Mrs Singleton?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Ruth replies.
‘Oh, but she was. I recall the doctor and I were very worried about her at one point because she was so far behind the other babies.’ Ruth glares at Irene. ‘But of course you were ill. That’s why you were slow.’
Beth looks disappointed and returns to carving pictures of dogs in the sand.
Six years on and the memory of Irene Sykes writing ‘slow walker’ in the Baby Clinic file can still raise Ruth to fury. Irene Sykes may be a nurse, but she’s no children of her own so what on earth would she know about anything?
‘But you had the sweetest nature, Beth. Like a little angel.’
A lump rises in Irene’s throat. ‘How is she now, Mrs Singleton? I heard at work that she’d had the operation.’
‘She’s very well, thank you.’
‘The physiotherapist told me that you’d cancelled any further visits. I know she was quite concerned.’
‘She doesn’t need any more physiotherapy. I’m sure Miss Franks has other patients who need her attentions more than Elizabeth.’
Irene is doubtful, but the look on Ruth’s face persuades her to let the subject drop. In the ensuing silence Ruth picks up her knitting. ‘And how’s Helen?’ Irene asks, turning to the teenager.
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
It is obvious that further attempts at conversation are a waste of time, so Irene leans back in her deckchair and lazily crosses one immaculately groomed leg over the other, showing off her evenly tanned legs, her white net petticoat and next week’s washing in the process. She raises both arms, arching her slender back against the striped canvas. Her breasts rise against her scoop-necked bodice. Satisfied she has attracted the glance of every man in the vicinity, Irene closes her eyes against the glare of the sun and, smiling, relaxes.
Helen is overjoyed with her copy of the New Musical Express. There’s a big poster of Bobby Darin in this week and a two-page spread. It’s the only reason Helen bought the magazine. She flicks past the other articles (‘Things Elvis Keeps Dark’, ‘Marty Wilde and Bert Weedon – So Much in Common’ and ‘Jerry Keller’s “Here Comes Summer” Hits the Right Note’) and turns to the poster. According to the article Bobby has ‘a flashing personality, golden-brown skin, expressive eyebrows and dazzling white teeth’. The photo is only in black and white, but Helen can tell the description is all true. Bobby is wearing a tight shiny suit and he’s dancing. His left arm is raised while the fingers of his right hand curl round the blunt bulk of the microphone. He must be dancing because Helen can see his legs are bent and one knee is twisted out to reveal his shiny winkle-picker shoes. It’s enough to make Helen feel dizzy. She’s looked in her Collins School Atlas more than once to see where Bobby lives. She knows it’s a long way to America, but when she puts her thumb on Lancashire and her forefinger on New York it isn’t far at all. In her dreams it’s barely the distance of a breath and she’s there in Hollywood, slow-dancing with Bobby. Even now, in broad daylight, she’s irresistibly drawn to his photograph – the expression on his face when he looks directly into her eyes is enough to make her feel light-headed. Eventually she tears her eyes away from the poster and moves on to the columns of small print. Bobby, it says, was brought up in a rough neighbourhood where there were drunken fights and stabbings. Helen’s mouth falls open as she reads that Bobby grew up surrounded by cheats, thieves, drunks, armed Mafia gangs and prostitution (whatever that is) on every corner. The family was very poor, but Bobby says, ‘You could walk in our house and not see any furniture or anything, but love would hit you square in the mouth.’
Helen is deeply moved. It is terrible to think that her idol was brought up in a slum. Helen sometimes comes home from school with a bit of ink on her cuff and her mother always shouts, ‘Take that blouse off this minute. Anybody would think you’d been brought up in a slum.’
Helen’s grandma Catlow lives on Bird Street and her mother says the house is no better than a slum. This is why Helen only ever sees her grandma once a year at Christmas when Mum brings her up on the bus from Bird Street to visit. Still, it’s nice that Bobby has such a close, loving family. The only thing that hits Helen square in the mouth when she walks in after school is the smell of polish and the sound of her mother scrubbing.
Bobby doesn’t think school is up to much. He says, ‘You don’t know people or life through books. You learn by living and doing. You gotta go out in the world.’
Helen couldn’t agree more. Bobby says that when he told his mother he wasn’t going back to school she was disappointed, but she didn’t try to stop him. He told her, ‘Mom, it’s time I got out to see what makes it tick.’ Helen wishes she could leave school and get a job like Connie, but she doubts that her mother will let her. She looks again at the picture of Bobby. She caught sight of him yesterday on the television at the hotel. He was singing his hit song ‘Splish Splash’ followed by his new record, ‘Dream Lover’. Bobby Darin has been Helen’s dream lover ever since the moment she saw his photo on the front of Boyfriend magazine. He’s half Italian and you can tell. He’s got dark wavy hair and a brilliant smile. He’s a great dancer too. Not like the boys at school.
The memory of her last school soirée is still fresh in Helen’s mind. Not that it was any different from usual – the girls sitting on forms at one side of the gym and all the boys standing around at the other side. There was the usual mad rush when the music started, the thunder of pumps across the wooden floor as the boys raced across to grab the best girls. Helen had hoped that David Cooper, with his shock of strawberry-blond hair and black winkle-picker boots, might ask her to dance, but Hanson had got to her first. It happens every year – Hanson runs for East Lancs Schoolboys. Helen was refusing to dance even as Hanson was dragging her into the centre of the gym. As a result Helen spent the first part of the evening limping around the floor in the clutches of Hanson and the latter part watching in despair as her best friend Susan monopolised David Cooper. It would have been so different if Bobby had been there.
‘I hear the bastards are looking for a new manager at your place.’
Jack is familiar with Harry’s habit of referring to the mill owners as bastards and, under normal circumstances, barely bats an eyelid. But Ruth is easily offended and has a bee in her bonnet about bad language, especially in front of the girls. Jack looks pointedly at his daughters before giving Harry a warning glance and saying, ‘Aye. Tom Brierley finished last Friday.’
‘Irreplaceable, that one,’ Harry mutters, ‘they’ll not find another crawler that fast.’
Jack sighs and shakes his head. It was Brierley who refused to have Harry back as foreman after the war, so the company shifted Sykes to Alexandria Mill. Harry took it badly. Alexandria still has the old looms and as a result weaves tea towels rather than the fancy work that’s done in the weaving shed where Jack works. Even promotion to head foreman at Alexandria Mill failed to sweeten the pill where Harry was concerned – he was, as he was always at pains to point out, still being paid less than what he would have got if he’d stayed put. Worse, Jack replaced him as foreman at Prospect. All this has resulted in the relationship between Jack and Harry Sykes being strained, to say the least. If there’s a smile on Harry’s face at the moment it’s because he’s after something. ‘Any idea who’s taking over?’ he asks.
‘No idea,’ Jack replies, squinting at the sea and opening his paper.
‘I suppose we’ll find out when the bosses are good and ready.’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s a puzzle, though,’ Harry persists. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since I heard Brierley was finishing, but there’s been nothing in the paper. I asked that Union bloke… what’s his name? Tom Bell. I asked him, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. Claims he’s no idea who’ll get the job. I wouldn’t mind a shot at it myself. A damn sight more money than Alexandria. Bastards must have it sewn up. I reckon one of the family will take over, what do you think? There must be a useless uncle or idiot cousin somewhere who’s after a slice of the cake.’ Harry throws the question casually, but he’s watching for Jack’s reaction.
‘Aye, probably you’re right.’
‘They’ve always kept management in the family. Up until Brierley. And Brierley wouldn’t have got the job if both Foster brothers hadn’t jumped ship when war was declared. They viewed World War II from the comfort of their London club along with the rest of the fireside fusiliers. And Brierley wasn’t slow to cash in. God knows how much he made in bribes from cowards keen to be designated “reserved occupation”.’
Jack has heard all this before. Some people haven’t moved on since the war – instead of looking ahead to the sixties they seem to be still stuck in the forties. Jack is usually optimistic, always looking to the future but things have changed. The letter in his back pocket has drawn him back into the past so effectively that he struggles even to remain in the present moment, let alone consider the future. Jack suppresses a sigh and says, ‘Weather’s not bad, is it?’
‘Looks to me as if it’s spoiling for rain later. I hear you had a rough do last week. Little bird told me that you very nearly had a walk-out.’
‘It was nothing. Just a few troublemakers.’
‘Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You were bound to get trouble the minute you brought those Pakis in.’
‘The Pakistanis are doing the jobs that no one else wants, so they’re not taking anyone’s job. They’re working the night shift because no one else will.’
‘Well, I warned you. I said you’d regret the day you let foreigners in. They don’t know the first thing about weaving. You’ve got your regular weavers coming in of a morning and not able to do a decent day’s work. Those Pakis on night shift leave their looms in a right state. They’re either broken or choked with muck. How are the day shift ever going to make a decent wage if half their looms are out of action? They’re standing around waiting for a tackler to fix the mess. It’s why I won’t take on Pakis, I wouldn’t even let them sweep the mill yard. They’re all the same. More trouble than they’re worth.’
‘They’re not all the same.’
‘Well, they look it. Can you tell the difference between one Paki and another? It’s beyond me.’
‘They’re not all Pakistanis. Some of them are Sikhs from the Punjab or Muslims from Bangladesh.’
‘There’s no difference. They were all swinging in trees before they came here and made a beeline for the National Assistance. Fuckin’ Fosters – they draft in all these wogs and expect the British workers to lay out the welcoming mat. Buggers that were happy to work all hours for a bowl of rice back in India – no wonder they think they’re well off when they get here. And once they are here, this bloody country will keep them for the rest of their lives, one way or another. No wonder the minute they get here they’re filling in the forms to bring across their whole bloody tribe.’
Jack has heard this argument countless times and it never fails to annoy him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Pakistanis. I’ve not had any bother with them. They’re quiet, they work hard and keep themselves to themselves. Our weavers aren’t beyond sabotaging their looms before the night shift comes on and they don’t complain. And I’ve yet to see a Pakistani turn up to work still drunk from the night before.’
‘But that’s just it. They don’t kick up. Management can do anything it likes, and that bunch will roll over and ask for more. Seven quid nine and ten a week and they aren’t complaining. It’s a fortune to them.’
‘Aye, and how long does it last when landlords are charging them the earth just for a roof over their heads? And any money they do manage to save is sent back abroad to feed their families. They’re no different from you and me – they’re trying to do their best for their families just like us.’
Jack has first-hand experience of the sort of squalor that immigrants have to cope with. There’s so much prejudice locally that the only accommodation they can find is in houses that should have been pulled down years ago in the worst part of town. Last month there’d been a mix-up with the wages and Jack had ended up going round to drop off Ahmed Khan’s overtime money. He’d found Ahmed along with a dozen fellow Pakistanis sharing the same house. No furniture – just mattresses on the floor of every room. No curtains, just blankets flapping with the draught. They’d had a bunch of local lads round a couple of nights before shouting abuse and smashing the windows. The landlord was charging them twenty-five bob each a week. Despite this he refused to get the windows repaired. Claimed it was a waste of time – they’d just get broken again. No heating whatsoever and the back gate had been kicked in. Jack has read about the West Indian riots in London a year ago and he reckons that Lancashire’s Asian community won’t be far behind.
‘I blame the government,’ Harry says. ‘They’re saying there’ll be another election before the end of the year. The Tories have been a bloody waste of time. They behave as if we still had an empire. It’s not two minutes since they were showing bloody Gandhi around the Lancashire mill towns. They should have kicked his chocolate arse and sent him home. No sooner have we given these darkies their independence than the buggers are getting on the nearest banana boat and coming here. And it’s not just these wogs turning up on our doorstep; there are thousands of them brown bastards back in India flooding our markets with cheap, coarse staple cotton.’
Jack sighs with frustration. Lancashire cotton has been threatened by foreign competition before, but it has always risen to the challenge. The industry has invented new fabrics like Fabriflex – a combed cotton weave bonded to a plastic backing – and special luxury finishes on cotton shoe linings that make them feel like finest kid. There’s even talk now of producing fake fur fabric, if the Cotton Board can sell the idea to the clothing industry. Once the car trade had been sold the idea of replacing leather seats with cotton-backed plastic Leathercloth they couldn’t get enough of it. Leathercloth is wipe-clean, lasts a good deal longer and resists the stains that ruin leather. It’s a nuisance that Leathercloth smells of plastic rather than rich leather, but appearancewise there’s not a lot to choose between them. With the invention of all these new British fabrics foreign competition really shouldn’t be the worry that it is. Jack turns to Harry and says, ‘Give it a rest, Harry. I don’t want to spend my holiday arguing the toss with you about work.’
Beth has been sitting cross-legged at her mother’s feet during this exchange of views. She turns now and taps her mother’s knee. ‘What’s a wog?’ she asks in a stage whisper. Ruth appears not to hear. She is apparently immersed in her Woman’s Own.
‘Mummy! What’s a wog?’
‘What?’
‘What’s a wog? Is it like a golliwog? Like one of those golliwogs on the jam jar?’
‘Shut up and play quietly.’
‘But what is it? What does it mean?’
‘It’s what ignorant people call other people with different-coloured skin. It’s very rude. Don’t ever let me hear you using that word.’
‘But Mr Sykes does. Mr Sykes says there are loads of wogs at the mill.’
‘Do you want a slap?’
Beth shakes her head and moves out of range of her mother’s hand.
Jack returns to the relative safety of his newspaper and Harry, keen to make amends, says, ‘Aye, well. How are your lasses getting on, Jack?’ Sykes’s eye lingers overlong on the figure of Helen sitting in a deckchair at the other side of her father, her head still buried in the NME. ‘Would they like an ice cream?’
‘Well…’ Jack hesitates; he is anxious not to reject this peace offering but aware of Ruth’s silent fury.
‘Come on, Jack. They’re on holiday. Irene! Here’s a couple of bob. Go and get the kids some ice cream.’
‘All by myself?’ Irene objects.
Jack nudges Helen. ‘Give Mrs Sykes a hand with the ices. Small ones, mind.’
5 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
ICE CREAM
Everyone loves ice cream, especially on a hot day. Where did you buy your ice cream? From a shop or from an ice-cream van parked on the sands? Score 5 points for a big ice cream!
‘Haven’t I seen you working at the dress shop on Penny Street?’ Irene asks when they’re out of earshot. ‘Do you like?’
‘Oh, yes. I love it. I just work Saturdays, but Blanche has offered me full time over the summer.’
‘I thought you were still at school.’
‘I am,’ Helen admits, ‘but I want to leave this summer.’
‘I’ll bet that hasn’t gone down too well with your mother.’
‘No,’ agrees Helen. ‘She goes mad every time I mention it.’
Helen looks closely at her confidante. Mrs Sykes has a look of Debbie Reynolds. Her hair is newly bleached and permed. A professional perm – nothing like the frizzy Toni Home Perm that her mother uses every few months. Mrs Sykes is the last word in style and not a hair out of place, despite the breeze.
‘I got this dress from Kendal’s in Manchester and I bought the hat at the same time. What do you think?’ Mrs Sykes raises a hand to the white feathers that curl round the crown of her head.
‘It’s a lovely dress,’ breathes Helen, ‘and the hat looks nice against your hair.’
Helen knows that the dress alone will have cost the best part of ten guineas. It’s pink with three-quarter-length sleeves and white turn-back cuffs.
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Sykes smiles. ‘That’s quite a compliment from someone who works for Blanche.’
It is Helen’s turn to be flattered. ‘Oh, I’m just the Saturday girl but you’d be surprised how many customers we get in to buy last-minute dresses for their holidays. And lots of them ask me what I think. We’ve barely a rail of summer dresses left. Blanche has had to order more from the suppliers. She’ll have been busy with all the work pressing and pricing up…’
Helen’s voice trails off in disappointment. It is not merely the money she could be earning; she misses the excitement of all the new dresses and the crush of customers all wanting her attention. Helen is treated like an adult from the moment she starts work until the shop shuts and she reluctantly returns home.
‘You must be worth your weight in gold to Blanche.’ Helen smiles and a blush of pleasure advances up her cheeks. ‘Do you get paid a bonus for all the dresses you sell?’ Irene asks.
It is common to discuss money and terribly impolite to ask about anything as personal as wages. Helen would love to tell Mrs Sykes that she gets five per cent on every dress she sells but years of conditioning prevent her.
Helen has a natural aptitude for sales. It is to Helen that Blanche turns for an ‘up-to-date opinion’ when a customer can’t make up her mind between a shot satin decolletage and a backless velvet cocktail dress. It is an unwritten rule that Helen recommends the more expensive gown, thereby maximising Blanche’s profit margin and Helen’s percentage. There has only ever been one exception to the rule. Mrs Taylor came in shortly after Helen started working in the shop. She was in search of an outfit for her daughter’s wedding and was very taken with a bright-blue suit that drew attention to her varicose veins and drained her face of colour. Helen managed to persuade Mrs Taylor into a cheaper floral dress in peach with matching jacket. It was only when she was ringing up the sale that she noticed Blanche looking daggers from the entrance to the dressing rooms. A sharp exchange between owner and assistant followed Mrs Taylor’s triumphant exit from the shop. Despite Helen’s hopes that the customer, content with her purchase, might return to the shop on future occasions Blanche was adamant, ‘That beggar won’t come in again this side of Preston Guild. Eileen Taylor’s a cheapskate. She buys mail order.’
This is the worst insult Blanche can ever bestow. Mail order sells mass-produced ill-fitting summer dresses for a fraction of the price. A thirty-five-shilling dress from Gammage’s Mail Order Catalogue retails at nearer four guineas in the front window of Blanche Fashions. Customers at the shop are provided with a personal fitting service undertaken by a qualified member of staff (Eva during the week and Helen on Saturdays). Their purchases are lovingly folded in tissue paper to prevent undue creasing and placed reverentially in a candy-striped box with pink rope carrier handles. Certain clients, due to their long-standing custom or the professional nature of their husbands’ work, are deemed worthy of the personal attention of Blanche herself. Such was Blanche’s fury following Mrs Taylor’s purchase that Helen was forced to stay late to sponge face-powder stains off necklines and press various garments before returning them to their hangers. Helen would have had to stay longer had she not pricked her finger while mending a hem ripped earlier by a careless stiletto. It wouldn’t have mattered if the dress had been black, but Blanche, terrified of getting blood on the cream crêpe de Chine, snatched the dress out of Helen’s weary grasp and dismissed her with a wave.
‘What do you spend your wages on? Do you get cut-price dresses?’ Mrs Sykes asks.
‘No. I mean I could if I asked, but Mum thinks the sort of dresses Blanche sells are too old for me. Anyway, I’m saving up for a Dansette record player.’
‘Oh, do you like Cliff?’
‘He’s OK, but I like Bobby Darin better. He’s gorgeous. I wish I could see him.’
‘It was rock and roll night at the Mechanics’ Institute last Friday. You should have gone. They were playing all the hit parade. Tommy Steele, Cliff Richards, Billy Fury.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Mechanics’ – there’s a bar on Fridays, isn’t there?’
‘They wouldn’t throw you out, you know. It’s mostly teenagers that go there.’
‘Oh, well, I normally go to the Methodist youth club on Fridays.’ Irene Sykes bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, poor you! I don’t suppose they allow any dancing there, do they?’
‘Well, you couldn’t anyway. There’s no record player. But there’s table tennis and the only reason they don’t allow darts is in case someone gets hurt.’
‘They’re a po-faced lot, the Methodists. Don’t crack a smile from one year’s end to the next. I’ll bet they have you hymn singing every five minutes, don’t they?’
Helen shakes her head. ‘We don’t sing hymns but there’s a prayer at the end. After we’ve said the Lord’s Prayer, that is.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Anyway, I heard Bobby Darin is coming to do a concert in Manchester next year. It’ll be expensive. You’ll have to get your dad to buy tickets. You’ll have loads of money if your dad is made manager at Prospect. I expect he’s up for the job, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. Dad never talks about work.’
Mrs Sykes looks into the wide innocence of Helen’s face and changes tack. ‘I’ll bet you have a lot of fun working at the shop. You must hear all the gossip.’
Helen smiles. ‘No. Not really.’ It has been drummed into Helen that it is common to gossip. This is a source of frustration to her since there is nothing more intimately satisfying than information shared with another woman. Confusingly, Helen is invited to retell gossip at home to her mother, but only when her sister and father are absent. Even when she tells her mother what has been happening in the shop Ruth, having listened carefully, doesn’t react as she should. Helen’s stories fail to elicit a single gasp or squeal of amusement from her mother. Ruth will only shake her head and say ‘It’s a disgrace’, and carry on washing up. Mrs Sykes, on the other hand, looks like a woman who would appreciate stories garnered from the shop. It’s a temptation.
‘I hear Mrs Booth is spending like it’s going out of fashion. I saw her last Wednesday coming out of that fancy hairdresser’s on Scotland Road and carrying four bags from Blanche’s. She must have spent a fortune.’ Mrs Sykes pauses in the hope of Helen volunteering further information.
‘I don’t know. I’m not there during the week.’
‘Haven’t you heard? She’s only come up on the pools! Her husband was too drunk to do it on Tuesday, so she filled the coupon herself – and she won! When he’d sobered up he was furious. Demanded all the money because it was his name on the coupon. When she refused he tried to get her drunk and steal it.’
Mrs Booth, thin as a stick and a committed member of both the Methodist Mothers’ Club and the Temperance Society, is known locally for her aversion to all the sins and vices that afflict her fellow man. When Mrs Booth is on youth club duty she won’t even let them mess about on the piano in case they play the boogie woogie or, worse, rock and roll. The idea of Mrs Booth filling in a pools coupon of all things is too much for Helen who, despite her best efforts, starts to laugh.
‘And that woman who lives on Reedley Road… what’s her name? Irishwoman – smokes like a chimney. Donahue. Mrs Donahue. She got into a fight in the chip shop and laid out the assistant. Talk about “fryin’ tonight”.’ Irene winks, nudges Helen in the ribs and both of them burst out laughing.
Helen watches as Mrs Sykes opens her white leather handbag and takes out a Stratton compact. She flips the lid open and powders her nose while Helen looks on, filled with admiration and envy in equal amounts. Mrs Sykes’s handbag overflows with sophistication. Besides a well-filled floral make-up bag, there’s a packet of tipped cigarettes, a special back combing brush, nail clippers and a bottle of Soir de Paris perfume. Mrs Sykes takes her appearance seriously.
When they reach the head of the queue Helen, mindful of her complexion, refuses the offer of an ice cream. Mrs Sykes orders and pays for the most expensive ice cream available for Beth before Helen can stop her. Purchase completed, Irene and Helen head back. It is 11.30 and the beach is packed. Helen has read in the paper that a quarter of a million visitors have arrived in the resort this week and, by the look of it, they’ve all headed for the beach. There isn’t a clear patch of sand to be seen between the striped deckchairs, windbreaks, sunburnt bodies and discarded clothes. Irene and Helen thread their way through a cheerful, noisy crowd of mill workers and their families breathing in boisterous lung-fuls of ozone instead of coal dust and cotton lint. Progress is slow. Both women are forced to step over bags and towels, inch round windbreaks and skirt a confusion of deckchairs and sunbathers. Frustrated, Irene guides Helen to the water’s edge where the only obstacles are paddlers and the odd sandcastle. Once they are free of the crowd Irene asks, ‘Do you see anything of Cora Lloyd? She’s a friend of your mother’s, isn’t she? Or is Cora too posh nowadays for Blanche’s shop?’
‘Oh no, she comes in a lot.’ Helen is anxious to defend Cora, whom she has known and loved since she was a child.
‘You’re lucky to see her. I sometimes wonder where she’s hiding herself; I see so little of her nowadays.’
This is not quite true. Such is Irene’s fascination with Cora that she tries to bump into her as often as possible. If there were any justice, Irene would see her every Tuesday at the Baby Clinic. Cora Lloyd has flattened enough grass in her time for it to be suspicious that she never falls pregnant. Irene’s special interest in Cora dates back to before the war. Harry and Irene hadn’t been courting very long when Cora made a play for him one night at the Red Lion. Irene was forced to confront Cora in the ladies’ lavatory. She had, Irene argued, no right to be flirting with Harry when everybody knew he was ‘spoken for’. Cora didn’t bat an eyelid. She carried on powdering her nose and fixing her lipstick until Irene felt a fool standing there waiting for a reply. When at last Cora did speak it was to tell Irene that she wouldn’t touch Harry with a bargepole. Cora could ‘do a damn sight better than Harry Sykes’.
True to her word, Cora had married Ronald Lloyd – deputy manager at Barclays Bank – before the war was over. She thereby gained entry into an exclusive social circle that Irene would kill to be a part of. However, all attempts to get on to genial terms with Cora following her marriage have been marked by failure. Cora is not forthcoming. Irene is painfully aware that Ruth Singleton is always invited to Cora’s parties, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone trying to get anything out of Ruth. Irene thinks she stands a better chance with Helen.
‘I remember when Cora was Cotton Queen,’ Irene begins. ‘Oh, long before you were born.’
‘I didn’t know she was a Cotton Queen.’
‘Oh, yes. She was the talk of the town. All the men thought she was a real catch. It’s amazing she stayed single as long as she did. Do you know her husband?’
‘Yes, he comes in the shop sometimes.’ Helen is familiar with Ronald Lloyd and she dislikes him intensely. He always tries to fumble her while Cora is busy with Blanche in the dressing room. It is hard to tell which is worse, her embarrassment or her disgust. Mr Lloyd is quick on his feet despite his size. He creeps up behind Helen at every opportunity with his sweaty hands and his unctuous smile.
‘I hear she’s been poorly,’ Irene continues.
‘Has she?’ ‘Well, I’ve not seen her out and about for a bit. When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Last Saturday. She was in to buy dresses for her holiday.’
‘I bet she bought loads.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘What were they like? I bet they were gorgeous. Strapped sundresses?’
‘No, she didn’t look at the sundresses. She was trying on dresses with matching jackets.’
Mrs Sykes looks shocked. ‘Where is she going on her holidays? Somewhere nice, I bet. Certainly not Blackpool.’
‘Blanche said she was going to the Costa Brava.’
‘That’s Spain, isn’t it? That’ll have cost a pretty penny. Well, she’ll not be needing a jacket, it’s supposed to be boiling hot there, isn’t it? Blanche must have misheard.’
‘No.’
‘Then why would she cover herself up like that? With her figure it doesn’t make sense.’
Helen thinks back. Cora had been in the dressing rooms when Helen had poked her head round the curtain to tell Blanche that the rep was asking for her. It was little more than a brief glimpse but Helen saw that Cora’s right shoulder and arm looked bruised. Helen hadn’t thought any more about it until Blanche had given her Cora’s purchases to wrap. Four summer dresses with matching jackets or long-sleeved boleros. Cora has an account at the shop and Helen had watched her struggle to sign her name in the book. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she had asked.
‘Just a fall. I shouldn’t be so clumsy,’ Cora had replied and that was the end of the conversation. Cora had arranged for the bags to be delivered and she’d left.
‘She said she’d had a fall,’ Helen says.
‘A fall? Poor Cora. Was she badly bruised?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But she is bruised. I knew it. That husband of hers is knocking her about.’
There’s a note of triumph in Mrs Sykes’s voice that makes Helen uncomfortable.
‘It was nothing. Just her right arm.’
‘You mean that’s all she’ll admit to.’
Helen purses her lips and resolves to say nothing more. The rest of the walk is conducted in silence.
Beth hates everything about the beach, from the concrete ripples of sand that hurt her feet to the sting of salt water. No trip to the sands is complete without her bucket and spade. The red-painted bucket used to belong to Helen and is rusted at the bottom with the residue of many summers’ salt water. The handle is a thick ridge of flaking tin that cuts into Beth’s fingers when she carries a load of water back from the waves at the edge of the beach. Although the top rim of the bucket is rolled over, the bottom edge is as sharp as a knife. The bucket bangs against the front of her thighs when she hauls it back from the water’s edge. The long spade is worse. When Beth grasps it halfway up the wooden haft the tin spade still takes the skin off the back of her heel as she drags it across the sand or cuts into her instep when she tries to dig. Playing on the beach is an activity that other children enjoy. Beth watches them building sandcastles, playing with beach balls and screaming as they run into the waves. This morning’s misery is interrupted by the return of her sister and Mrs Sykes.
‘Here, young lady. I’ve got you a proper ice cream. There! I’ll bet you’ve not seen one of those before,’ Mrs Sykes says with some satisfaction.
Beth nods dumbly. She hasn’t. Two scoops in a double cornet – chocolate one side and strawberry on the other. Beth’s wrist strains with the effort of holding it upright.
Ruth is momentarily thrown by the sheer extravagance and then annoyed. ‘That’s far too much. You shouldn’t have bought such a big one,’ she says, pointing to the offending ice cream. ‘I’d have thought you’d know how bad ice cream is for children’s teeth. Not to mention the danger of a chill.’
‘A chill? In this weather? What are you thinking of? Come on, pet, get it eaten before it melts.’
Both women stare at the child. Beth is anxious to please. She opens her mouth to take a big bite.
‘You’ll be sick,’ Ruth says. And, as if by magic, Beth feels her throat rise. She is sitting cross-legged at her father’s feet, in full view. There is nowhere to hide. Trickles of pink ice cream run from the soggy cornet and gather round her wrist and still she is watched.
‘Hurry up and eat it before it melts. I shall be in bother with your mother if you get it all over your clothes.’
Beth takes a lick. Mrs Sykes smiles.
‘Have you said thank you, Elizabeth?’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Sykes.’
‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’
Another drool of melted ice slithers down her thumb. Unable to win the argument, Ruth takes up her knitting with increased ferocity. Although Beth has her back to her mother she can still feel the backwash of maternal fury. Beth’s wrist is beginning to ache from the strain. The twin scoops will topple from their temporary mooring on the cornet unless Beth keeps the whole monstrous confection upright. Above her head Mr and Mrs Sykes make preparations to leave and she is forgotten. With infinite care Beth moves forward on to her knees and crawls round the back of her father’s deckchair. She scoops a big hole in the sand with one hand and, with the other, she buries the ice cream. When she crawls back round she catches her mother’s eye. Experience has taught Beth that, under these circumstances, it’s best to keep her head down and her mouth shut until the storm passes.
6 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
COLLECTION BOX
If you look carefully you’ll often see collection boxes on the promenade. Some of them are quite unusual – perhaps it’s an old mine from the war, or a big model lifeboat, or even a disarmed depth charge and thrower! Where is your favourite charity box? Score a generous 15 points.
The Singleton family are returning to their hotel room after lunch when Helen pulls her dad to one side. She waits until her mother and Beth disappear round the corner before saying, ‘Can I go out this afternoon?’
‘Where do you want to go?’ Jack asks.
‘Just for a coffee.’
‘Have you told your mother?’
‘It’s only a coffee, Dad. I’ll be back before teatime.’
Jack reaches into his pocket for a coin. ‘Here you are.’
Helen takes the coin and is gone in a flash. Jack shakes his head and continues to make his way up the stairs.
The Belvedere prides itself on being a superior hotel, and so it appears from a casual glance, from its mock-Georgian portico to its oak-panelled main staircase. No expense has been spared. The plush crimson and gold pile carpet that graces the exclusive Residents’ Lounge extends throughout the immaculate ground floor. Sadly this reputation for luxury and cleanliness falters and finally fails when Helen passes through the STAFF ONLY door. Once her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she makes out a flight of steps that leads to a warren of dimly lit dog-legged corridors. The air reeks of overcooked vegetables and rising damp. She peers at each well-worn and heavily scratched door as she moves through the darkness. Connie, when Helen finds her, is in room three. She is leaning over the washbasin in the corner and squinting into a tiny mirror as she applies another layer of Mediterranean-blue eyeshadow.
‘Hiya!’ Connie shouts in answer to Helen’s polite knock. ‘Come in. Won’t be a sec.’
Helen steps over the threshold and looks around. Connie appears caught in the eye of a storm of personal possessions. Along with the piles of indiscriminate refuse there are copies of Boyfriend magazine (a weekly that Helen would kill to read) and various piles of clothes. Helen is faced with a chaotic mêlée of items from hairclips to powder puffs and discarded food and drink. Various articles of clothing are scattered across the cracked brown lino. A greying bra with circular stitching round the cone-shaped cups is hanging off the back of a chair piled high with discarded skirts and tops. The ledge above the washbasin is crammed with cosmetics, perfume and an overturned can of talc, and the towel rail below is home to several odd stockings, a pair of knickers and a single hand towel. Under the sink Helen spots a curled pink corset with suspenders attached.
‘You’ve got one of those new corsets. It’s a roll-on, like in the adverts. Is it comfy?’
‘Yeah. It’s great. A lot better than the old-fashioned girdles. Those things dig in all over the place. It’s a Playtex elastic. Dead easy. Just roll it on and roll it off.’
‘I wish I had one. Mum won’t get me one; she says I’ve no figure to keep in so I just have a cotton suspender belt. The waist has gone and it’s always slipping down. You’re so lucky, you’ve got so much stuff. I mean I can’t believe you have so many clothes!’
‘Oh, well, you’re welcome to borrow anything. If you fancy any of my skirts or anything. Hey! I’ll bet we’re the same shoe size. Why don’t you try on my new stilettos?’ Connie flaps her free hand in the direction of the bed. ‘They’re under there, I think.’
Helen struggles to ignore the sound of her mother’s voice in her ear: ‘Never try on shoes that someone else has had on. You’ll end up with verrucas… or worse, some kind of transmitted disease.’ But the prospect of seeing herself in a pair of white stilettos is too exciting to refuse. Helen bends and pulls out a Freeman Hardy & Willis box from under the bed. It is disappointingly empty save for a couple of sanitary towels, an emery board and tenpence ha’penny in copper. Helen resumes the search. At last she spots one shoe in the bottom of the gaping wardrobe and the other under the washbasin. Helen slips on the shoes and struggles to her feet. The heels are vertiginous – so much so that she is afraid to walk and as a result is reduced to standing still and swaying slightly.
‘They look great,’ Connie assures her. ‘I’m wearing them myself this afternoon otherwise you could borrow them.’
‘It’s OK,’ Helen replies. ‘I don’t think I’d be able to walk in them anyway.’
‘You have to practise, but you get the knack after a bit.’
Helen opens her handbag and pulls out a piece of newspaper. ‘Here, look what I found in the paper.’ Helen passes Connie a clipping that reads:
PLANS ASSISTANT
The Land Registry has a vacancy for a Junior Plans Assistant.
Applicants must be aged between 16 and 18 and have
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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Sallie Day
I-SPY AT THE SEASIDEHello, children! Welcome to your very own I-Spy Book. In these pages you’ll be able to look for all kinds of secret, exciting things that are found only by the sea.Blackpool, 1959. The Singleton family is on holiday. For seven-year-old Beth, just out of hospital, this means struggling to fill in her ‘I-Spy’ book and avoiding her mother Ruth’s eagle-eyed supervision. Her sixteen-year-old sister Helen, meanwhile, has befriended a waitress whose fun-loving ways hint at a life beyond Ruth’s strict rules.But times are changing. As foreman of the local cotton mill, Ruth’s husband Jack is caught between unions and owners whose cost-cutting measures threaten an entire way of life. And his job isn’t the only thing at risk. When a letter arrives from Crete, a secret re-emerges from the rubble of Jack’s wartime past that could destroy his marriage.As Helen is tempted outside the safe confines of her mother’s stern edicts, with dramatic consequences, an unexpected encounter inspires Beth to forge her own path. Over the holiday week, all four Singletons must struggle to find their place in a shifting world of promenade amusements, illicit sex and stilted afternoon teas, in this touching and extraordinarily evocative novel.
SALLIE DAY
The Palace of Strange Girls
For Julian
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 (#ube749456-4a28-550a-94ca-0b715a6e7fad)
Chapter 2 (#u7f81f937-8efd-53a4-b0fe-5e868733e683)
Chapter 3 (#u24c99230-cbf2-5be6-bfb7-1114583195a7)
Chapter 4 (#u1c47e380-31de-5ae3-9eb9-8d6cda78b144)
Chapter 5 (#ue23de4f1-382c-5737-b399-a56a58d048bf)
Chapter 6 (#ud093aab5-5aff-581a-a4ac-e2ff14a05f2a)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on… (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
I-SPY AT THE SEASIDE
Hello, children! Welcome to your very own I-Spy book. In these pages you’ll be able to look for all kinds of secret, exciting things that are found only by the sea. As you spot each of the things pictured here – and answer the simple questions – you earn an I-Spy score. It’s fun!
Blackpool, Tuesday 12 July 1959
Beth has had it with Jesus. She’s kicking the skirting boards to prove it and she hopes He’s watching. Mrs Brunskill at Sunday School says He’s watching all the time, even when you’re asleep. It’s amazing. You’d think He’d be too busy (what with all the cripples and foolish virgins) to be bothered with Beth. Thus assured of an audience, she pauses in her assault and eyes the heavily varnished wood. Beth is disappointed; the skirting boards are as yet undamaged, so she changes leg and carries on kicking. Flakes of dirty cream paint and grey plaster spiral down from the wall above her head and the picture of a little boy crying rattles in its frame. Beth carries on kicking.
‘You big bugger,’ she mouths on the off chance He’s listening as well as watching. Beth has learned the word from the dustbin man, Mr Kerkley, who lives next door. Mr Kerkley shouted ‘You little bugger’ at Beth’s best friend Robert when he dragged a club hammer into their coal shed and reduced all the big shiny lumps of coal into powdered shale. Beth had repeated the story to her mother. Word for word. She’d hoped to witness a satisfying gasp of shocked disbelief and disapproval from her mother, but her tale had the reverse effect. Her mother took her by the scruff of the neck and washed her mouth out with soap and water for using dirty words. Since then the offending word has been a constant resource for the child, who mouths it silently on a daily basis.
Beth woke early this morning. Wiping the sweat from her face, she sat up and dangled her feet out of the bed, waving them back and forth through air thick with the smell of bacon fat, unreliable plumbing and floral disinfectant. After a moment she slipped on her sandals (ignoring the shiny steel buckles that must always be fastened) and rummaged around under her pillow for the book. She has had the I-Spy book for four days now. Beth’s initial reverence for the volume has been replaced with an obsessive fascination. Its white pages have softened to cream under Beth’s sweaty-fingered perusal. It was purchased at the newsagent’s on the first day of the holiday and Beth will not be parted from it. By day she carries it around in her pocket or, failing that, inside her knickers. By night she sleeps with the book under her pillow and her hand on top of it. Beth is at a loss to decide which is the best part – the book itself or the codebook that came with it. And then there’s the membership card, the source of her present frustration.
The green card announces in heavy type ‘Official Membership Card – Issued by Big Chief I-Spy, Wigwam-by-the-Water, London’. Underneath there are four dotted lines for the member’s name and address. Although Beth can write her first name easily enough, her surname is long and fraught with difficulties. It has to be perfect. Bearing this in mind, Beth reached reluctantly for her glasses. The pink clinic glasses have a plaster stuck over the right lens. It is there to correct a lazy eye. The flexible wires hook ferociously round her ears and the frames dig in across the bridge of her nose. The discomfort always serves to concentrate Beth’s mind. The ‘B’ for Beth went down wobbly but correct, the ‘e’ and ‘t’ were easy and even the string on the ‘h’ was almost straight. She paused before attempting her surname, Singleton. The task demands a deep breath before she starts and, in the face of her inability to write the letter ‘S’, something approaching a miracle. Where should she start? Does the snake go this way or that? Within minutes the virgin card is smeared with rubber and gouged with the swan-necked traces of continued attempts. It makes no difference how hard she tries, the ‘S’ always comes out back to front. Beth cast around for a solution to her dilemma. An idea occurred. The verse she had to learn and recite at Sunday School last week was,
Ask and it shall be given. Seek and ye shall find.
The memory slipped back unbidden into Beth’s head as she surveyed the wreckage of her once pristine membership card. It might be worth a try.
Beth placed her palms together and scrunched her eyes shut in an effort to attract the Almighty’s attention and asked. She then set the point of her pencil to the card. When she finally opened her eyes, eager for the promised miracle, she found yet another backward ‘S’. The letter lay fixed on the page. Eternally, immovably wrong. Beth stared at the card in disbelief. This is why she is now venting her fury on the nearest thing – the skirting boards.
The room that Beth shares with her sister is devoid of any luxury other than a dusty blue rug between the two single beds and a similar grey offering underneath the washstand in the corner. This is the Belvedere Hotel (‘Families Welcome, Hot and Cold Water in Every Room, Residents’ Bar’). Management do not supply eiderdowns in their fourth-floor bedrooms, nor do they supply dressing tables, trouser presses, suitcase stands or any facilities for hanging clothes other than two hooks behind the door. Not that either girl is discomforted in any way. Save for the washstand and the film of dust, room forty-eight is exactly the same as their attic bedroom at home. Except that Beth wouldn’t dare kick the skirting boards like this at home. Beth lands another almighty kick on the woodwork.
The noise wakens her sister Helen who, aware of the damage that Beth, clad only in her vest, is visiting upon the toes of her new Startrite sandals, is quick to respond. ‘For goodness’ sake, Beth! Stop that kicking. You’ll ruin your sandals doing that. What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t do it,’ Beth shouts.
‘What can’t you do?’
Beth gets down on to her knees by way of reply and searches under her bed. Helen yawns, scrapes her fingers through her thick blonde fringe and flips the rest of her hair behind her shoulders. Helen has been trying to grow her hair to shoulder length for over a year now but her mother, who considers long hair to be an open invitation to nits, has constantly thwarted her. Normally Helen would have had her hair cut at the beginning of the Easter term but her mother was distracted by other things and Helen escaped. It is now July and her hair has grown long enough for a ponytail. Her mother has told her that she will have to have it cut before school starts again in September. But Helen isn’t inclined to have her hair cut and she’d rather be dead than go back to school.
At last Beth retrieves the card and wipes it down the front of her vest to dislodge the dust, fluff and flakes of discarded skin.
Helen yawns again and says, ‘Is that all? Flippin’ ’eck, Beth. It’s just a membership card. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Don’t start crying. Give it here and get me something to rest it on.’
Beth hands over the card and watches as her sister gets out her white clutch bag. There had been an upset when their mother had first caught sight of the bag. Helen had claimed that it was ‘soiled goods’ that couldn’t be sold at the shop, so Blanche had given it to her for working late one Saturday. Ruth remarked that it didn’t look soiled to her but Helen insisted that it had been and she’d managed to get the mark out of the plastic with soap and water. The truth was somewhat different. Helen had purchased the bag from the brand-new spring range at Freeman Hardy & Willis. She’d have preferred leather but plastic will do – just so as it’s this season’s colour: white. She’d got the money in the form of an unofficial cash bonus from Blanche. Blanche is keen to escape the attentions of the taxman and Helen is equally anxious to avoid her mother getting wind of the extra cash. Helen is expected to hand over her untouched wage packet to her mother every Saturday night. Ruth takes the little brown packet and, having counted out the ten-shilling notes, gives Helen the residue of change back as spending money. It’s called ‘bringing the old cat a mouse’. The sudden appearance of Helen carrying a brand-new bag rattled her mother, who would never dream of buying a white clutch. Ruth makes do with a more serviceable brown handbag with strap handles that she’s had since the war. She was suspicious of Helen’s explanation but limited herself to saying, ‘I don’t know why Blanche let you have a bag. You’ve nothing to put in it.’
‘I’ve got my purse and a handkerchief,’ Helen replied, waiting until her mother was out of hearing before adding, ‘and the rest of my bonus.’
Helen, stung by her mother’s dismissal, has made it her immediate ambition to fill the bag. Her first secret purchase with the hidden money was a miniature diary and notebook from Mayhew’s and she intends to buy a whole range of forbidden items in the future – a lipstick, mascara, powder, maybe even cigarettes. With one pound, two shillings and sixpence the possibilities are well-nigh endless.
Beth is impatient. She pushes the I-Spy book into Helen’s lap and says, ‘Can you write my name and everything? Can you do it now?’
The bag opens with a sophisticated click and Beth watches transfixed as Helen pulls out a tiny gilt case with matching gilt pencil topped with a rubber. The card is thin and creases easily under Beth’s clumsy fingers, but after Helen rubs the paper it’s so clean that there’s barely a trace of Beth’s abortive attempts. When she’s satisfied Helen asks, ‘Do you want it big?’
Beth nods enthusiastically.
Helen picks up the pencil and writes the word SPUTNIK in block capitals. Underneath, where it says address, she writes ‘COAL-’OLE-BY-THE-TOILET, BACKYARD, BLACKBURN’.
Beth’s face is a picture.
‘What’s wrong? That’s your name, isn’t it? It’s what Dad calls you.’
Beth clenches her teeth and her hands bunch into fists. Helen laughs. ‘Well, what do you want to be called then? What shall I write?’
‘Elizabeth Singleton.’
‘Oh, Elizabeth, is it?’
Helen goes into her bag again for her mottled blue Conway Stewart pen with the fat gold nib and begins to write. Helen is nine years older than Beth and her handwriting is beautiful; she puts little circles over her ‘i’s and even draws little flowers inside the letter ‘B’. When she’s finished Beth’s name looks so pretty, so grown up.
Beth is elated. She reads the card avidly until she reaches the space for her Redskin name. She looks up at her sister and points at the blank space. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to fill that in until later,’ Helen remarks. This is true. Beth must fill in every page of I-Spy at the Seaside and send it to Big Chief I-Spy who will send her a certificate and a feather to prove she’s a proper Redskin. Only then can she choose any name she likes. But Beth is impatient – she wants a name now.
‘What about “Little Cloud” or “Laughing Waters”?’ Helen suggests.
Beth looks unconvinced. She wants to be called something frightening. ‘Wolf Teeth’ would be good. Or ‘Growling Bear’. Beth needs to find another club member so that she can join their tribe instead of being by herself all the time. She’s been absent from school for a long time and all the friends she used to know are now friends with someone else. It would be better if Beth could join in at playtime but her mother has told the school that Beth is not allowed to swing, climb, skip or run. As a result Beth just sits and watches at playtime. Waiting for someone to play marbles with her.
Of all the myriad rules there is one above all others that must not be broken. Beth must never, ever, for any reason take off her wool vest. As a result the vest (Ladybird age 5) is Beth’s closest companion. It is only removed once a week when Beth is bathed and is immediately replaced by another vest fresh from the airing cupboard and smelling of Lux soapflakes. In this manner Beth’s shame is kept from the sight of all but her mother.
‘For goodness’ sake, Beth! What are we going to do about your sandals?’ Beth looks down at the scuffed leather. She has had the sandals for six weeks but has only been wearing them since Saturday, the start of the holiday. It seems that only Beth is subject to this particular rule. All Beth’s friends have been wearing their sandals since Easter and Susan Fletcher has been wearing hers even longer. All year round, in fact. But that’s because Susan Fletcher’s mum works and she ‘doesn’t care what state she sends her daughter to school in’. At least that’s what Beth’s mother says.
‘I hate these,’ Beth complains, kicking off her sandals. ‘Only boys wear brown sandals. I didn’t even get to stand on the thing that makes your feet go all green like a skellington.’
‘You mean the X-ray machine. No one will notice they’re brown. Anyway they match your hair,’ says Helen, in a moment of inspiration.
They are interrupted by a sharp rapping at the door. Both girls jump.
‘That’s Mum! Quick, get your sandals on or we’ll both catch it.’
Ruth Singleton, her arms full of clothes, waits in the hallway, her right foot tapping on the varnished floorboards. If her patience is short today it’s due to her husband’s ill-starred attempt at marital intimacy this morning. Surely he can see how she is after all these months of anxiety? But not Jack. No. Jack thinks a bit of early-morning sex is on the menu now they’re on holiday. Ruth had tolerated his caresses until his increasing insistence had forced her to push his hand away and say, ‘Don’t, Jack. I have to get up to get the girls ready.’
He hadn’t said anything, had limited himself to a drawn-out sigh. Ruth felt an answering rush of anger. Does it always have to come down to this?
Ruth is prised from the memory by the sound of the door finally opening. None of this palaver with locks would be necessary if it weren’t for her younger daughter’s recently acquired habit of sleepwalking. This is bad enough at home, but there’s no telling what trouble the seven-year-old might get into in a hotel the size of the Belvedere. In a doomed attempt to allay Mrs Singleton’s worst fears, the hotel manager has sworn on his mother’s life (a lady much missed since her demise three years previously) that the room locks are made by the same firm who supplied the MOD during the war. Even the ‘blasted Hun’ couldn’t breach the security of the Belvedere’s rooms and thus Beth’s habit of going AWOL at night has been curtailed. This desirable state being attained not by the hoped-for Yale lock and chain, but by the effect of damp salt air on turn-of-the-century iron locks. All of which means that Helen must use the combined strength of both hands and the leverage of her shoulder to release the door.
Though barely topping five foot six, Ruth appears much larger. Her face is scrubbed to a shine and her brown hair (already falling victim to the stealthy approach of grey) is brushed and fixed neatly into a Victory Roll that evokes memories of the war years and oppressive rationing. She is an energetic woman. A woman devoted to hard work. A woman reliant upon the writings of Elizabeth Craig to guide her through the minefield of domestic practice. Once in the room, Ruth dumps the clothes on the nearest bed and heads straight for the window to let in the sunshine. This involves coaxing, flicking, tugging and hauling the pea-green damask curtains to either end of a buckled and sagging wire. Halfway through this daily ordeal Ruth is distracted by the sight of the hotel yard, four floors below. It is lined with overflowing bins and a miscellaneous collection of mops, buckets and rusty chairs occupied by members of the hotel staff during their tea breaks. There, in full view, stands a line of sullen grey dustbins on an island of cracked concrete; the whole amply irrigated by the backwash of overflowing kitchen drains. Ruth’s whitewashed backyard boasts two bins, double the capacity of her terraced neighbours’. One (supplied by the local council) for ashes, and the other (privately purchased) for household waste. Ruth always wraps potato peelings and the like before disposal. Only by wrapping everything in fresh newspaper can Ruth ensure that the inside of her bin remains as clean as the day she bought it.
The sight of the hotel bins is aggravated further by the appearance of two overturned buckets that roll back and forth as the wind shifts. Surely the hotel owns more by way of cleaning equipment than that? Ruth has a whole selection of buckets in her backyard. One for gathering up the hot ashes from the kitchen fire, one for scrubbing floors, another for washing windows and, finally, a monstrous aluminium bucket, twice the size of its iron counterparts, for ‘best’. In line with its elevated status this bucket stands in glorious isolation in the scullery, immaculately clean and gleaming with potential, waiting for the next load of cottons that need starching.
Ruth’s ruminations on household equipment are interrupted by a cry of protest from her older daughter: ‘Isn’t it time I changed my skirt, Mum?’
Ruth turns her gaze from the window. ‘I don’t know what you’re fussing about. That skirt will do another day. You’ve got clean underwear. You wouldn’t have that if I hadn’t spent half an hour in the laundry room last night.’
This is not quite the irksome job it might appear. The hotel laundry room houses a brand-new Bendix Twin Tub. Under the pretext of hand-washing the family’s underwear, Ruth has admired the top-loader lids and neat hoses on the twin tub, seen the spinner in action. As the adverts say: ‘This is the future of household laundry.’ Ruth has a Hotpoint Empress at home. With its built-in ‘automatic’ wringer and Bakelite agitator it used to be the last word in laundry. But the advent of the Bendix Twin Tub has changed all that. Who would want the backache of hauling double sheets through the wringer if they could drop them in a spinner and pull them out forty minutes later drip free? This is the modern world of post-war Britain. A world made familiar to Ruth through magazines. A world she is determined to enter.
Ruth turns her attention to her younger daughter. ‘Have you washed your face, Elizabeth? Elizabeth!’
Beth has her head firmly in the I-Spy codebook. She is practising stroking her cheek in the manner prescribed at the beginning of chapter 3 ‘Greeting other Redskins’. Beth has been rehearsing this move for the past four days but no one has yet responded.
‘Elizabeth!’ Ruth says, taking her daughter firmly by the arm. ‘Are you listening? Have you washed your face?’
‘Yes.’ It is a small lie. So small that it barely deserves the name. But it affords a morsel of revenge, a minor victory in the guerrilla war Beth has been waging since Easter, a war that Ruth is only dimly aware is being fought.
‘Looks more like a lick and a promise to me,’ Ruth says, scanning her daughter’s face. ‘You could do with using a bit of soap next time.’
‘Can I have a summer dress today? Please. I hate wearing shorts. I look like a boy in them.’
Ruth holds up the brown shorts. The weave is a right-hand twill, perfect for rough wear because it will resist snags and tears. And it won’t wear out. ‘Well, if these shorts and those sandals aren’t summery I don’t know what is,’ she says. ‘I’ve only brought your jumper because we’ve got to keep you warm.’
‘Can I wear this?’ Beth asks as she pulls a smocked cotton dress from the bottom of the pile. Beth has inherited the dress from her sister but has yet to be allowed to wear it.
Ruth holds up the dress. ‘It might do,’ she concedes. There follow a frantic ten minutes while Ruth tries and fails to fit the dress over Beth’s wool vest and fleece-lined liberty bodice. ‘It’s no good, Elizabeth. It’s not going to fit. Hold your arms up while I get it off.’
Beth raises her arms as the dress is pulled up over her head, bringing the vest and liberty bodice with it. By the time Beth emerges from the struggle her face is the colour of the rising sun – for a minute she looks healthy. In her haste to protect her daughter from any potential draughts Ruth yanks the vest back across Beth’s skin so sharply that the child flinches with pain. In another moment she is dressed in the prescribed brown knee-length shorts, olive-green jumper and thick socks to take up the slack in her sandals.
‘There. Now you’re done.’ Ruth heaves a sigh with the effort involved in arming her daughter against all the sharp winds and torrential rain that Blackpool can offer in the middle of July.
2 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
RED-EYED SANDHOPPER
These little animals live between the tidemarks, chiefly under stones and in the rotting seaweed at the top of the beach. They are white with bright-red eyes and five pairs of legs. Score 10 points for a bleary-eyed sandhopper.
Jack has escaped early to buy a newspaper. With this end in mind he has made his way to the promenade in holiday mood. The sun is still a bit fitful but the air is fresh. He is easily tempted by the sea and so wanders over the tram tracks and pink tarmac to the edge of the promenade, takes a deep breath and gazes over the railings. The run-up to the annual Wakes Week holiday has been hectic. The weaving shed where Jack is foreman has been buzzing with talk of closure. Jack has spent the last week sorting out one problem after another, reorganising shifts, dealing with strike threats and all the while continuing the daily struggle to keep output steady. Jack takes another deep breath and, determined to relax, gazes out to the horizon. The tide is coming in and the remaining strip of sand is empty save for a single figure, shoes in hand, making its way painfully over sand hard rippled by the tide. It’s Dougie.
‘Mornin’, Dougie! Up an’ at it already?’ Jack shouts.
The figure looks up and glares. Dougie Fairbrother is knee high to a grasshopper and walks like he’s fighting a gale. When he comes within hailing distance he yells, ‘What time is it, Jack?’
‘Just comin’ up to twenty past.’
‘What?’ Receiving no immediate reply, he adds, ‘Twenty past what?’
‘Seven.’
‘That means I’ve been on this friggin’ beach for the best part of two bloody hours,’ Dougie says as he makes his way slowly up the concrete steps that separate the beach from the prom. Jack shakes his head. He has known Dougie Fairbrother all his life. Jack was the first person Dougie went to when his wife walked out and it was Jack who got him sorted out with a solicitor. Dougie has developed a fair thirst since his divorce back in the spring. It’s eight in the morning and he’s still drunk from the night before. When Dougie finally reaches the top of the steps he stops to catch his breath. Dougie has worked in the weaving shed since he was fourteen, that’s the best part of twenty years filling his lungs with lint and dust.
While he is puffing and blowing Jack remarks, ‘Aye, well, they say there’s no rest for the wicked. What happened to lying in bed, Dougie? I thought your lad had booked a double room.’
‘He did. But it’s otherwise occupied at the moment. The little bastard has got a lass from over yonder in with him.’
Jack follows the direction of Dougie’s thumb and sees a strip joint on the corner opposite with all the hatches battened down. ‘Who’s he got in there?’ he asks, hard pushed to hide his incredulity.
‘One of the strippers. I didn’t stop long enough to get her name and there were no bloody point asking Doug. Pound to a penny he wouldn’t know.’
‘So where did you sleep?’
‘I kipped down in the Residents’ Lounge. I was OK till the cleaners turned up at six and threw me out. I’ve been hanging around here on the off chance one of the lads turned up. I’m chilled to the bloody bone and gasping for a drink. They won’t open the hotel doors before nine at the earliest.’
Jack puts his hand in his pocket and gives Dougie half a crown. ‘That’ll be enough to get you a pot of tea and some breakfast.’
Dougie brightens immediately and says, ‘Thanks, Jack. E-e, but you should have come with us last night. We had a grand time. It was a good do.’
‘Looks like it,’ replies Jack.
Dougie blinks his bloodshot eyes and rubs a calloused hand over his sickly face. ‘We started off at Yates’s but, God help us, we ended up at the King o’ Clubs.’
‘I’m surprised you went back there. I thought you’d been thrown out last time,’ Jack says as they cross the tramlines.
‘We were. It was Tapper’s fault. We sat through this load o’ guff about how we were going to see amazing things. Some tart wi’ her own version of ping-pong, half a dozen Egyptian dancers, that sort of thing. We’d gone in to see Sheba, the star of the show. She was billed as “six foot of exotic woman, naked as God intended, from the distant reaches of deepest Africa”. Tapper jumped up halfway through the spiel and yelled, “Well, bloody bring her out! I’ve summat here from Blackburn waiting for her!” It took three of us, mind, but we managed to get Tapper to sit down again and button his flies. Nowt would have come of it if some lard-arse next to us hadn’t said summat smart. Tapper only got to throw three or four punches before we were out on our ears. Never a dull moment wi’ Tapper.’
That much is true. Eddie Tapworth is the best tackler in the cotton shed. A giant of a man, he is built for the heavy job of lifting beams. He can keep his looms running all day. He’s not one of those tacklers who hang around making the weavers wait while they sort out a trapped or broken shuttle, or grumbling at Jack to chase up a shortage of spindles from the spinning rooms. Tapper sets to and does it himself. He could replace the used shuttles and put a fresh cop in faster than you could draw breath. He is one of the few tacklers who can reckon how much the shaft speed will increase when the leather drive belts from the looms shrink in the heat. If all the tacklers were as capable as Tapper, the foreman’s job would be a damn sight easier. When he’s sober, Jack has a good deal of time for Eddie Tapworth. But drunk it’s another matter. A few pints and Tapper would fight his own shadow if it followed him.
‘We’re off to the Winter Gardens tomorrow night,’ Dougie continues. ‘You’d like. It’s Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. Why don’t you come?’
Jack rubs the angle of his jaw and shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not that bothered, Dougie.’
‘Come on! You’ve not lost your taste for jazz! I’ve known a time when I couldn’t get you to play a waltz straight without jazzing it up. We lost work for the band because of it. You were Blackburn’s answer to Jack Teagarden.’
Jack’s expression is transformed by the memory. Laughter rumbles from deep in his chest while his grey eyes all but disappear above the curve of his cheekbones. He and Dougie got up to all sorts in the band before the war. He played trombone to Dougie’s trumpet. Jack had started off as bandleader – top hat, silk scarf, the lot. But it hadn’t taken long to sort out that it was the players who were getting all the girls. The bloke with the trombone in particular. Eddie Cummings couldn’t shift for skirt. When Jack promoted Eddie to bandleader and borrowed his trombone, things started looking up. Jack’s broad shoulders and ability to charm make him popular even now with the women. He may be in his late thirties but he takes care of himself. His blond hair is cut by the best barber in town and combed back into a series of shiny Brylcreemed tramlines.
‘No, I’ll give it a miss, Dougie. Kenny Ball’s a bit tame for me. I like the proper stuff – I saw Count Basie at the Tower a couple of years back. Cost an arm and a leg to get in, but it was worth every penny. Kenny Ball is just an amateur in comparison. I listened to a fair bit of jazz in Crete during the war.’
‘We were damn lucky to get Vera Lynn where I was stationed. Wasn’t it Crete where you met that bloke… the one that…?’
‘Yes. Nibs turned up one day with a gramophone and half a dozen jazz records. He’d brought them over from Greece. Got them from a black GI who was being posted back home. Only the Yanks would think to take a gramophone to war. I couldn’t get enough of it. The first time I heard Meade Lux Lewis playing “Honky Tonk Train Blues” I cracked out laughing.’
‘Aye, well, Kenny Ball’s the best Blackpool can come up with. You sure you won’t come?’
‘No, I’ll give it a miss. I promised to see Tom Bell tomorrow night.’
‘What? The Union bloke? Now isn’t that a surprise!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing serious. He just wants a chat.’
‘Chat my arse. He’ll have summat up his sleeve. I bet he’s got wind of Fosters’ offer.’
‘You haven’t said anything, have you, Dougie? Nobody is supposed to know. I haven’t even told Ruth. I’m still thinking about it.’
‘Why haven’t you told Ruth? I’d have thought you’d have wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Bloody hell, Jack, they’ve offered you the top job. Manager of Prospect Mill. What’s there to think about? It’ll more than double your pay packet overnight. Get her told.’
‘She’s been distracted with Beth. And anyway I haven’t said I’ll take the job.’
‘Then you want your bumps feeling, Jack. You should have bitten their hand off the minute it was offered. They should have made you up to manager years ago. You know more about cotton than all the Foster brothers put together.’
‘It’ll mean sitting behind a desk all day.’
‘You won’t catch Ruth complaining about that. I remember when we were kids on Bird Street. She had some fancy ideas even then. We used to tease the life out of her, but she’d never change her tune. She was going to get married, live in a beautiful house and have two children – a boy and a girl.’
‘That’s Ruth. Always knows exactly what she wants. But I still think I’d rather be busy in the weaving shed than sitting by myself in an office pushing papers around. I’ll get round to telling her. I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’
Jack shakes his head. ‘No, no. It’s something and nothing. Not worth bothering with.’
‘Well, think on. There’ll be merry hell to pay if she finds out you’ve been keeping secrets.’
Jack looks at his feet and moves his hand unconsciously up to the inside pocket of his jacket where he has hidden the letter. There are enough secrets in there to keep him busy for a fair bit and then some.
‘Anyway, how is she?’
Jack looks confused; his mind has been elsewhere. ‘Who?’
‘Your Ruth.’
Jack shakes his head. ‘She’s jiggered after all the upset with Beth. She didn’t want to come away for fear that Beth wouldn’t be up to it. We ended up having a barney about it. Ruth needs a holiday more than any of us. Still, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. The first thing she did when we got to the hotel was to set to and clean the washbasin.’
‘But Beth’s goin’ to be OK?’
‘Oh aye. Give her time, she’ll pull round. She’s a right little fighter.’
‘And how’s your Helen?’
Jack smiles. ‘Still pushing to leave school this summer. It’s the usual do – she’s sixteen going on twenty-five.’
‘They’re all the same. Our Doug is only a year older and he thinks he knows it all. Never satisfied. “He wants jam on it” as my old dad used to say. Talking of which, just take a look at this.’ Dougie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of fabric and hands it to Jack.
‘Where did you get this?’ Jack asks, turning the square over and back.
‘One of the lads from Whittaker’s. Says this is what they’re turning out nowadays.’
‘Are you sure Whittaker’s are weaving this?’
‘It’s right what I tell you. Look at the state of it. Lowest possible thread count and sized to glory.’
Jack runs his thumbnail across the surface of the dry, brittle fabric and a small cloud of white powder rises. ‘It must be hell to weave. There’s no movement in it, no give.’
‘There’s more elastic in a tart’s knickers.’
‘I can’t believe Whittaker’s are using such poor-quality cotton staple that they’ve had to glue it together. They never used to use anything less than Egyptian or Sea Island cotton.’
‘Times have changed, Jack. You know that as well as I do. There’s no pride left in the business.’
Dougie and Jack reach the pavement where they part, Dougie for breakfast at the nearest café, and Jack for a Daily Herald and twenty Senior Service.
On the way back from the newsagent’s Jack finds a bench on the prom, sits down and reaches for his cigarettes. The pack of untipped cigarettes is embossed in the centre with a picture of a brawny sailor. Jack runs his thumb over the familiar relief as he pushes open the pack and lights his first cigarette of the day. Smoking is barely tolerated at home. Jack may smoke in the backyard or, if it is raining, in the scullery. Tab ends to be disposed of directly into the ash bin. There isn’t an ashtray in the house and Ruth refuses to buy one. Numberless though her household duties may be, emptying ashtrays is not one of them. Alcohol is subject to similar restrictions. The single bottle of sherry is brought out every Christmas and returned untouched to the darkest recesses of the sideboard every New Year. Ruth is running a house, not a public bar. She is teetotal, has been since the Temperance Society marched down Bird Street with their banners flying.
Jack sighs and opens the paper, but he’s too distracted by memories of his friend to read. Nibs was barely five foot six, thin as a rake. He seemed to be in a permanent sweat. His skin shone like it was newly oiled and he couldn’t speak without using his hands to illustrate his point. He looked like a windmill in a gale when he got upset. He had run a pet shop in London before the war. A typical Cockney – loads of patter and plenty of old buck when things weren’t going his way. But he loved animals. It didn’t matter where they were, there’d be some mangy mongrel or moth-eaten cat at his heels. In Heraklion Nibs had put his hand halfway down an Alsatian’s throat to pull out a sliver of bone that was blocking the dog’s wind-pipe. The dog had promptly vomited and then nipped Nibs on the ankle as he was walking away. He’d always taken in strays and the fact that he was in the middle of a war didn’t make any difference. He argued that there wasn’t much to choose between dogs and men. ‘Sometimes, even with the best will in the world, you can’t save them and there’s no point in even trying. It’s kinder to have done and put them out of their bloody misery.’ The memory is a bitter one, considering how things turned out. Jack shakes himself and rubs his hand across his forehead as if to wipe away the memory. He lights another cigarette and stares out across the empty sands, a look of hopelessness on his face.
It is Gunner, the hotel dog, who finally rouses him. The dog wanders up out of nowhere and lodges his chin firmly on Jack’s knee. Gunner is a Lakeland terrier, his coat a scrunch of grey and brown wire wool. One eye is dimmed with a cataract but the other is bright and what’s left of his docked tail is permanently erect. Man and dog sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. The breeze freshens, shifting grains of sand across the pink flagstones and rippling the bunting tied to the promenade railings. Jack has spent Wakes Week at the Belvedere Hotel every year since the war and, as a result, is regarded as family by Gunner. Blackpool at the height of the holiday season might disturb and overexcite any ordinary dog, but Gunner is an old hand. It has been a long trip for Gunner from ‘unofficial South Lancs Regimental mascot’ to Mine Host at the Belvedere Hotel. The dog is subject to the unwelcome attention of passing children and his sleep is disturbed nightly by hotel guests in various states of inebriation gaining rowdy entry to the hotel lobby. Jack tickles the dog’s left ear before taking a last drag and flicking his cigarette over the promenade railings. Standing up, he proceeds to fold the newspaper into three and, putting it under his arm, heads back to the hotel. Gunner meanwhile continues his route march along the prom in search of last night’s chip papers.
‘Looks as if it’s going to be another hot one, Ruth,’ Jack says when he sees his wife in the lobby. His glance strays to Beth, who is already wriggling with the itchiness of her vest, liberty bodice and wool jumper. ‘Hasn’t she got a summer dress to wear?’
‘Not today,’ Ruth replies firmly. ‘It could turn cold again; the wind’s got a nip to it.’
‘Give over. I’ve been out there. It’s not cold, it’s fresh. It’ll do her good to get some sunshine.’
Beth runs up to her father and wraps her arms round his legs.
‘E-yo-yo, Sputnik!’
Jack bends down to pick Beth up. He puts his arm carefully round the back of her legs and lifts her gently. Beth might be fragile but the spell in hospital hasn’t curbed any of her curiosity. She spots the letter in his inside jacket pocket in a flash. ‘What’s this?’ she asks, her fingers closing round the corner of the letter.
‘Never mind that. Are you ready for your breakfast? Plenty of porridge, that’s what you need. It’ll make your hair curl,’ Jack says as he strokes back a fine brown strand that has escaped from her ribbon. ‘I’ll just nip upstairs and change my jacket – it’s too hot for tweed,’ he continues, turning to Ruth.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she replies. ‘I’ve left my scarf on the dressing table.’
‘No, you’re all right. I can pick it up at the same time.’
Once in the room, Jack reaches inside his jacket. The beige satin lining whispers conspiratorially against the thick envelope as he slides it out. He has had the letter for the best part of a week now and keeping it hidden is proving stressful. If he were at home there’d be no problem. Jack could have hidden it in his worksheets and textile patterns. As long as they’re neatly stacked Ruth never bothers with them; she’s no interest in loom specifications and the like. But here in Blackpool there’s nowhere safe to keep the letter. Not in the suitcase. Dear God, not in there. She’s in that case half a dozen times a day, pulling out fresh clothes for the girls and rearranging everything. She has a system. Everything in its place and a place for everything. At night she goes through all Jack’s clothes looking for loose buttons and dirty handkerchiefs. She empties the contents of his pockets on to a brass tray on the dressing table and puts his wallet on top. Finally she brushes down his jacket and, resisting the lure of the hotel wardrobe, hangs it up behind the door. As a result of her efficiency Jack has been driven to distraction – forever moving the letter from jacket to trousers as the situation demands. He had been keeping it in his shirt pocket until he noticed her eyeing him suspiciously at breakfast yesterday. Discretion being the better part of valour, he had retired to the toilet and moved it to his jacket pocket where he’d reckoned it was safe enough for a while. Now he takes the letter, folds it in half, pushes it in the back pocket of his trousers and does up the button. Manoeuvre completed, Jack takes off his jacket, collects Ruth’s scarf from the dressing table and locks the door behind him.
3 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
GANNETS
These are large seabirds with white feathers and black tips to their wings. They feed by plunging into the sea and catching fish with their long pointed bills. This habit of diving upon their food has led to their hungry reputation! Score 20 points for some greedy gannets.
Connie is run off her feet this morning. She has already seated an extra four families in the packed dining room when the Clegg family, six in total, turn up. ‘There’s a whole bloody tribe of them,’ she complains to Andy, the chef, ‘and I’ve only got a table for two left.’
Connie hasn’t worked as a silver service waitress before, but the manager of the Belvedere knows a crowd pleaser when he sees one. Connie turned up on his doorstep a couple of weeks earlier and was offered the job on the spot. The Belvedere is very classy, a dream come true for Connie. Her last job was at Stan’s Café, where she worked every weekend. She served behind the counter mostly, but she had to cook as well on Sundays if Stan wasn’t feeling up to it. It was Stan who taught her how to carry seven plates at once. She’d got the knack eventually, but not before she’d turned up at school on a fair few Monday mornings with a giant plaster on the inside of her left wrist. Connie is a cracker, in more ways than one. She’d caused such a sensation at the café that the place was packed with lads every weekend waiting for her to lean over the counter or drop a fork. Connie is just that sort of girl. Her scarlet overall looked decent enough on the hanger when Stan gave it to her, but when she put it on there was something about her curves that resisted confinement. And what with the hotplates and ovens going full blast behind her, it was only natural that she should loosen the collar. Connie sees no problem in the degree of male attention she excites despite, or perhaps because of, the ladders in her stockings and the buttons missing from her bodice. Stan offered her full-time work when she left school, but Connie had bigger fish to fry. She’d heard that you could pick up seasonal work in Blackpool. What could be better than spending the whole summer in Blackpool and being paid for it to boot? Stan was sad to see her go. Still, Stan’s loss is the Belvedere’s gain.
The hotel supplies its waitresses with a black uniform and a white frilly apron with a delicate pin-tucked front fixed at nipple level with tiny gold safety pins. Black stilettos and seamed stockings complete the outfit, along with a wisp of lace that passes for a hat, which is secured to the back of the head with white kirby grips. Connie is friendly and easygoing by nature, and has already proved a big hit with the head chef, Andy. It is Andy who yells at the deputy manager to put up another table and find an extra couple of chairs sharpish, and Andy who advises Connie to put the Cleggs in the alcove. If Connie hesitates it’s because her new friend Helen’s family usually sit there. But Andy is adamant. He has her best interests at heart.
When she arrives in the palatial dining room Mrs Singleton is at first confused and then annoyed to see that the large table in its own private alcove (where the family has sat every day since their arrival last Saturday) is no longer available. Far from it. A family of six is occupying their table, leaving the Singletons no other option but to cram themselves round a tiny table inched in between the alcove and walkway. This new location not only affords them unwelcome glimpses into the kitchen with its blasts of steam and bad language, but, worse still, forces them into close proximity with the very people who stole their table in the first place. Jack sizes up the situation and, accepting that there is no alternative, indicates that they should all sit at the new table.
Ruth remains standing, staring furiously at the interlopers. The family appear not to have noticed but the moment Ruth finally relents and sits, the wife, a large florid woman with broad capable hands, pipes up, ‘Have we got your table? It was the waitress what put us here. She said it were the only way what with there being so many of us and needing two high chairs for the twins. Do you want us to move?’ All this said with the confidence of a woman who, once settled, even the H bomb wouldn’t shift.
Ruth turns her head away and it is left to Jack to reply. ‘No, no. It doesn’t matter. We’ll sit here instead. There’s room for everyone,’ he says, raising his voice to cover the rustle of the letter in his trouser pocket when he sits down. ‘It’s Full English Breakfast wherever you sit!’
‘You’re right there,’ replies the husband. He turns halfway round in his chair and offers Jack his hand. ‘Fred Clegg,’ he says and tilts his head in the direction of the florid woman. ‘And that’s the wife, Florrie.’
Jack nods at Florrie and shakes hands with Fred.
‘We got here last night. We’re still finding our feet,’ continues Fred.
‘Well, it looks as if you’ve brought the sunshine with you,’ Jack says as he turns his attention to the breakfast menu.
‘From over Blackburn way, are you?’ Fred asks.
‘Aye.’
‘I thought I’d seen you around. I never forget a face. Where do you…?’
But Jack, aware that the next question will be about work, interrupts: ‘You’re from the town then, are you?’
‘Aye.’
During this exchange Ruth has had a good look at the Clegg family. The husband looks dishevelled, from the worn elbows of his brown cardigan to his nylon shirt that strains across a lovingly maintained beer belly. Ruth wouldn’t dream of buying a nylon shirt. There’s no need for nylon unless you’re too lazy to iron. And as for all this craze for drip-dry – anybody with any sense knows that a good cotton twill will resist wrinkling and barely needs ironing. But Mrs Clegg doesn’t look as if she’d care. She’s wearing a faded blue dress with white polka dots. The dress is deliberately shapeless yet its generous gathers struggle to disguise her overwhelming bulk. The material stretches over unwanted curves and catches between rolls of excess. Only the eldest boy is decently dressed, the twins and the younger lad are in little better than rags. All her worst fears confirmed, Ruth turns and looks out of the window. High winds laden with salt spray have eaten away at the exterior paintwork. Ruth suspects it would only take a single swipe from a scrubbing brush to remove the lot but you’d risk removing the window at the same time. There isn’t an ounce of decent putty left on the frame. No wonder it’s draughty.
‘We’ve not stayed here before,’ Fred volunteers. ‘We usually stay at Mrs Thornber’s boarding house down at South Shore. Nearer for the Pleasure Beach. Three meals a day and less than half the price of this place. But what with one thing and another, we’d left it too late for Mrs Thornber’s. So we thought we’d have a couple of days here instead. Makes a change.’
‘Oh, you’ll like it here. It’s good plain food at the Belvedere and there’s a bar every night,’ replies Jack, who is momentarily distracted by the quality of the damask tablecloth. He turns the material over and back a few times remarking the precision of the surface pattern in reverse, speculating as to the thread count. He runs his nail across the grain of the fabric to assess how much of the stiffness of the cloth is due to the weave and how much to the application of starch. Jack learned long ago that once you start looking at weaves it’s difficult to break the habit.
Fred sits back in his chair and looks around the dining room. The walls are covered in flock wallpaper: deep burgundy acanthus leaves against a pale plum background. The room itself is bisected by a series of white pillars that support a ceiling heavy with ornate plasterwork and oversized ceiling roses. It’s what holidaymakers come to the Belvedere for – a bit of luxury. The hotel is fully booked and the room hums with the sound of mill workers and their families tucking into a three-course breakfast and making the best of an English summer.
Florrie Clegg beams at Ruth and says, ‘It looks a nice place, this.’
Ruth looks unconvinced. She has noticed a slow but irreversible decline in standards over the years. Still, any hotel that can entertain that couple in room sixty-nine – the salesman and his ‘wife’ – is already well on its way to perdition without any further help from the Cleggs. And as for the ‘good plain food’ – that’s a matter of opinion.
Shortly after they were married Ruth made Eggs Florentine. Jack stared at the eggs and spinach lavishly topped with a classic cheese sauce (made properly, mind you, with a flour and butter roux) and said, ‘What sort of concoction is this? You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Ruth. What’s wrong with broth on a Tuesday?’
Ruth may have crossed Eggs Florentine off the menu but she is still determined to use some of the fancy recipes she and her best friend Cora collected at night school. Cora always said that the French names alone were enough to make her mouth water (Poulet Bonne Femme, Moules Marinières, Boeuf Bourguignon). They’d both had a good laugh about the pronunciation. Cora had a talent for making French sound suggestive. She’d thought up a whole list of things that ‘Moules Marinières’ might possibly mean – including sailors’ balls – until Ruth had blushed and covered her mouth with her hand. Despite her attachment to French cuisine Ruth is quite happy to leave out the garlic and downright glad to substitute water for wine. She has learned that it is no good putting Jack’s tea in front of him and saying ‘This is Quiche Lorraine’ – he is a sight less suspicious if she says, ‘I thought we’d have egg and bacon pie today.’ Or ‘I’ve picked up some fresh mussels from the market. I thought they’d make a change, boiled with a bit of onion.’ He will set to and eat the lot until the bowl rattles with the scrape of empty shells and his fingers glisten with butter and flakes of fresh parsley. Ruth is running culinary circles around Jack. And as long as she only does it once or twice a week, Jack is prepared to let her.
Further conversation is abandoned as the two families order breakfast. Connie scribbles the orders down in her pad and disappears through the swing doors into the kitchen. Ruth has a set of rules garnered for the most part from Good Housekeeping and the writings of Elizabeth Craig. Rules are Ruth’s sheet anchor in the troubled seas of marriage and child rearing. Over the years she has developed an encyclopedic knowledge of how to behave – table manners and etiquette being foremost in her present considerations. A glance down the table confirms that her daughters are behaving as she would expect in a public place. Their voices are suitably moderated, their spoons half filled from the far edge of the cereal bowls, their elbows well in and their movements slow. Ruth watches Connie clearing the cereal plates from the Cleggs’ table minutes after having served them.
‘Just look at that family. Have you seen how they eat?’ Ruth whispers to Jack. ‘They’re like a bunch of gannets. I’m surprised they bother with knives and forks. I’ve never seen anyone eat that fast.’
Beth taps her mother’s hand. ‘Can I have a drink, Mummy? I’m thirsty. Can I have orange juice like the other people?’ Beth pokes a pale finger at the Cleggs.
Ruth shakes her head. There is nothing to drink other than a pot of tea. It is Ruth’s first job, when she reaches the table every morning, to hand the jug of orange juice back to the waitress. Ruth does not hold with tinned juice, be it orange, grapefruit, or apple. Whole fresh fruit is to be preferred at all times. Water is not an acceptable alternative. Elizabeth is so clumsy she’d spill it.
‘You’ll have to wait until you get back to the room. I can’t be having you making a mess,’ Ruth replies.
The Cleggs appear to have no such qualms; their jug of juice disappears within minutes of their arrival and is refilled. This is promptly followed by demands for tea, toast and marmalade to keep the family going while they wait for the main course. The Full English arrives with another pot of tea and extra toast. Fred Clegg sighs and says to his sons, ‘Wire in, lads.’ As if they needed telling.
Fred and Jack go on to chat about the weather forecast and Florrie turns to Ruth. ‘What a pretty daughter you have,’ she says, casting her eye over Helen. ‘And how old is your little boy?’
Ruth feigns deafness and Florrie has to raise her voice in order to be heard over the noise of the twins nudging and pushing each other, and stealing food from each other’s plates.
Ruth gives her a frosty look. ‘Are you referring to my daughters?’
‘Oh, it’s a little girl! I’m such a fool. I should have known. It was the brown shorts that threw me. What’s your name, pet?’
Beth is not allowed to speak to strangers. She looks to her mother for permission. Ruth inclines her head – a nod imperceptible to outsiders – and Beth replies, ‘Beth.’
‘Elizabeth,’ her mother interrupts. ‘I don’t hold with all this shortening of names. It’s lazy.’
‘Well, long or short, it’s a pretty name. And how old are you?’
‘Seven. And my sister is sixteen.’
‘Well,’ says Florrie, turning to Ruth, ‘aren’t they grand? You must be very proud of them. There’s the same gap between my lads as there is between your girls. ‘Rob’ – she points to a sallow-skinned boy who is wearing an Indian headdress with three feathers – ’is nine.’
The boy pulls a packet of Barrett’s Sweet Cigarettes from the pocket of his grey shorts and, extracting a cigarette, he taps the end on the front of the packet and lodges it in the side of his mouth. When he is assured that he has Beth’s shocked attention he inhales deeply, glares at his mother and says, ‘I’m called Red Hawk.’
Florrie ignores him and continues, ‘There’s the twins, of course. And my eldest, Alan. He’s eighteen. Training as a clerk,’ Florrie remarks with some pride.
Helen glances sideways at Alan. He is leaning back in his chair drinking his tea and flicking the ash from his tipped cigarette into the saucer. He is a remarkably sharp dresser, from his wide-checked blue gingham shirt to his white socks and shiny slip-on shoes. His hands are small but clean, the nails well manicured. He is shaved and scrubbed to such an extent that his neck glows red against his collar. His ginger hair is parted precisely on the left and combed into a solid quiff. Helen is impressed. Aware of her attention, Alan pulls out a large leather wallet and flicks it open to reveal serried ranks of fivers, pounds and ten-shilling notes. Helen immediately looks away, but this calculated display of wealth earns a wink from the passing Connie.
The Cleggs have finished their breakfast but seem unwilling to leave the dining room. Their table looks like a bombsite. The cloth is crumpled and smeared with butter, and there’s dirty cutlery everywhere but on the plate, while only the folded napkins remain pristine. The Singletons’ table is an oasis of order and calm in comparison.
Florrie relaxes and pours herself another cup of tea. After a few moments she arches her back against the wooden chair and addresses Ruth. ‘How long are you here for, Ruth?’
‘We leave on Saturday,’ Ruth replies and busies herself with collecting the used napkins. She is relieved when Red Hawk’s demand for some spending money interrupts the conversation. Florrie takes two sixpences out of her purse. She gives them both to the boy and whispers in his ear. Red Hawk nods and, before Ruth can put a stop to it, he has given Beth a sixpence.
‘There’s really no need, Mrs Clegg,’ Ruth says. ‘Elizabeth already has some spending money.’
‘Oh, call me Florrie,’ Mrs Clegg insists. ‘Well, it’s the least I could do after my silly mistake. It’s only a sixpence. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to spend it on, won’t you, pet?’
Beth looks at the sixpence in disbelief – this is twice as much as the spending money she gets every Saturday. Aware of the extravagance, she holds her breath, awaiting her mother’s intervention, but there is silence. When Beth finally tears her eyes away from the sixpence and looks up, her mother glares at her and says, ‘What do you say, Elizabeth?’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers and wraps the coin carefully in her best handkerchief. Sixpence will buy a Range Rider Lucky Bag, a tuppenny sherbet fountain and a liquorice Catherine wheel with a pink sweet in the middle. Besides the usual sweets and cards all Lucky Bags have a toy inside – with a bit of luck Beth might get a monkey on a stick instead of the usual whistle.
Outflanked by Florrie’s generosity, Ruth is reduced to tightening her lips and watching, with mounting disapproval, as Red Hawk slides up and down the varnished walkway in his stocking feet. Beth is transfixed by his misbehaviour. He is wearing three feathers stuck in a rubber band round his head. His thick grey school shorts are ripped at the pocket and worn to a greasy shine on the bottom. Round his waist is a red and blue elastic belt that fastens at the front with a snake clasp, though it is not much use keeping his shorts up since the waistband is missing two of the belt holders. Beth is impressed. Red Hawk has several club badges pinned to his jumper. Beth has been trying to join clubs for the past year. All she’s managed so far is the Golliwog Club, and she isn’t really a member of that until her mother has finished sufficient jars of jam to send off for a badge. Beth has been campaigning for a golliwog pirate badge – much more exciting than the golly bus conductor or, worse still, the golly golfer. Red Hawk is wearing a Cub badge. Beth had harboured hopes of joining the Brownies but Brown Owl only wants Brownies who can join in the various activities like dancing in a circle round a papier-mâché owl on a toadstool and going away to Brownie camp. There’s the Girl Adventurers’ Club, but it’s not very adventurous. Unless you count always being polite to adults and kind to sick animals exciting. There’s Uncle Mac’s Children’s Favourites Club, but that’s hardly exclusive; anyone can join just by switching on the wireless.
Red Hawk has already bumped into one table and got tomato ketchup down his front, and now he’s shooting a bow and arrow at the ceiling. When he knocks over and smashes a couple of side plates his mother gives him a fond look and says, by way of explanation, ‘You have to let them have their heads. It’s only once a year. Holidays are holidays, aren’t they?’
Breakfast is finished by the time the couple from room sixty-nine appear. Jack has spoken to him in the bar once or twice. He’s a travelling salesman and Ruth reckons his ‘wife’ is out to get what she can – which will be a fair amount if you look at the way she’s dressed. All she ever has for breakfast is dry toast and straight black coffee. Not, Ruth notes, that it stays straight for long. He’s forever pulling out a hip flask of whisky to put a kick in it. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he says with a wide grin.
There’s some winking and groping under the table before she says, ‘Behave yourself, Harry. What will people think?’ It’s obvious from his reply that he couldn’t care less. He has a laugh like Sid James.
Breakfast complete, Jack and Fred Clegg wander into the Residents’ Lounge for a cigarette, deep in conversation about whether or not Blackburn will make the cup final next season. The eldest boy, Alan, remains seated next to his mother but his attention is concentrated on the other side of the dining room where Connie and Helen are standing.
‘Our Alan works for an accountant,’ Florrie tells Ruth.
‘Turf?’
‘Oh no, a proper accountant. With a fancy office and everything. Our Alan has been there for the past couple of years since he left school. It’s a responsible job. They rely on our Alan to do the local deliveries in the morning. It’s very serious. Some of those letters have statements, bonds, or even cheques inside. The senior partner, Mr Tyson, calls our Alan his right-hand man. And he’s a smasher at home. So good with the twins. They listen to every word he says.’
Florrie lifts the occupants of the two high chairs – a couple of heavy, flat-faced three-year-olds with matching sagging lower lips and dull grey eyes. Freed from restraint, the twins immediately fall into a fight, which progresses out of the dining room, through the lobby and looks set to continue into the street. It only stops when one twin cracks his skull against the sign that reads: ‘Guests are requested to ensure that their footwear is free of sand before entering the hotel.’ The infant bursts into tears and howls with such ferocity that his twin feels compelled to join in.
Deaf to the uproar, Beth watches entranced as Red Hawk continues to crawl around the dining room. When he disappears into the lobby Beth asks to be excused from the table and gets down from her chair. She moves to the doorway of the dining room and peeps into the lobby. Red Hawk is still shooting arrows. When one falls at her feet she picks it up. Close to she can see that he has a green and white I-Spy badge pinned to his collar. Beth solemnly strokes her cheek three times. Red Hawk signals back. A friendship is formed.
‘Are you a proper Red Indian brave?’ the boy asks. Beth nods eagerly. ‘Where are your flippin’ feathers then?’ Beth looks blank. ‘Look.’ The boy points to his headband. ‘I’ve got three feathers.’ He points to each of them in turn and says, ‘This one’s for I-Spy Birds, the middle one’s for I-Spy in the Street, and this one at the end is for I-Spy Car Numbers. I’m on my fourth now. And I’m head of the Wild Jaguars tribe. What tribe do you belong to?’
‘I haven’t got a tribe yet, but I’ve got this.’ Beth extracts I-Spy at the Seaside from her pocket and pushes it under his nose.
He barely glances at it before he hands it back. ‘That one looks too easy – I’m doing I-Spy Buses and Coaches now. They’re more difficult but I bet I finish the whole book by Saturday.’
Beth is unable to give Red Hawk’s achievements her full attention since she has spotted Gunner relieving himself against one of the impressive magnolia pillars at the hotel entrance. She has spent hours trying to make friends with Gunner. Beth is not allowed a dog of her own. She has asked her mother for one countless times, but the answer is always the same. Dogs are far too dirty to keep, they carry fleas and ticks, along with all sorts of diseases and they don’t care where they make a mess. There being no hope of acquiring a dog of her own, Beth is therefore on permanent lookout for a dog she can adopt. She is fearless in her pursuit, despite having once been bitten by a poodle on Halifax Road. Beth is convinced that Gunner can be persuaded into allowing her to stroke him if she is persistent enough. But Gunner is not amenable to approach. His tolerance for children as a subspecies is substantially below zero and remains so despite having been severely tested by Beth’s persistent kindness and relentless affection.
Beth, ignorant of the dog’s pathological hatred of children, still believes that she can make friends with Gunner. ‘Here, Gunner. You’d like a stroke, wouldn’t you?’ Gunner doesn’t look convinced. Beth, hand outstretched, creeps forward. Unable to whistle like the boy in Lassie, Beth is reduced to making clicking noises with her tongue and purring, ‘Here, Gunner. There’s a good boy. Here, Gunner. Here, boy.’
Beth and Red Hawk watch as Gunner bolts past them in the direction of the hotel kitchens. ‘I’ll get him for you,’ says Red Hawk, loading his bow with the remaining arrow and aiming at the dog’s retreating backside.
‘No,’ shouts Beth, grabbing the arrow. ‘I’ll never make friends with him if you hurt him.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ volunteers Red Hawk. ‘That bugger bloody bit me when I pulled his tail. I wouldn’t care but it were only a joke.’
Back in the dining room, Connie is clearing the tables. She and Helen have become good friends over the past few days. They can be found giggling together in a corner somewhere most mornings once the dining room empties. Connie sneaks a swift cigarette and a milky coffee, while Helen listens open-mouthed to the waitress’s salacious account of the previous evening’s activities. Connie is forever encouraging Helen to accompany her on these soirées but so far she has drawn a blank. She may be a couple of months younger but she has a wealth of experience hitherto denied Helen. Even Helen’s Saturday job in a dress shop can’t compete with Connie’s obvious experience.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ whispers Connie at her most confidential. ‘Kitchen and dining-room staff get two hours off every afternoon. We all go out together. Why don’t you come with us? We usually meet up at the pier for a drink and a laugh. It’s a scream. Andy bought me four Babychams yesterday afternoon and I was seeing double by the time I got back.’
‘I can’t,’ Helen says. ‘I’m not allowed on the pier.’
‘What? Even during the day? Hellfire! My dad’s in Strangeways and even he gets let out every now and again.’
Helen is embarrassed. Not just because her parents treat her like a child but also for her friend having a dad in prison, but it doesn’t seem to bother Connie.
‘You’re lucky to have a dad like yours. He’s great, isn’t he?’ Connie sighs and casts a glance over at Jack.
‘He’s OK, I suppose. He’s not as strict as my mother.’
‘She’s like bloody Hitler. However did she get her claws into your dad? I mean, he’s good-looking enough to get anyone he wanted. He doesn’t even look old, does he?’ Connie changes the subject when she sees the look of disbelief on Helen’s face. ‘Anyway, what’s the gossip about that new bloke?’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Wonderful in the check shirt on your old table. Go on, what’s the gossip? Spill the beans, Helen.’
‘I don’t know a lot – he’s called Alan and he works for an accountant.’
‘Oh, very fancy! Did you see him flashing his wallet around?’
‘Yes.’ Helen is awestruck by such a display of wealth.
‘I saw him. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
Helen blushes. ‘Well, I’m not interested in him. Well, I mean, he’s all right.’
‘Would you go out with him if he asked?’
‘I might.’
‘I thought you said you had a boyfriend at home?’
‘I have,’ Helen replies, trying to sound casual. She has been forced to invent a boyfriend with whom she is ‘going steady’ in order to deflect Connie’s constant queries as to why she doesn’t go out at night.
‘Ah, well, a bit on the side won’t do any harm. What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over. That’s what my mum always says when she’s out with a new bloke. I’ll bet Mr Wonderful over there would give his right arm to take you out. Oh, God! He’s looking this way.’
Helen is forced to put her hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter. Far away, at the other end of the dining room, Alan looks on.
‘I know what! If you can’t come on the pier with me why don’t we go to that new coffee bar?’
‘Where?’ Helen asks.
‘Rico’s. That one on Victoria Street, just behind the Tower. I went there with Andy last week – he’d fixed it so that we both had the same day off. There’s a great jukebox and they serve that frothy coffee. Your mum can’t object to you having a cup of coffee, can she? Let’s go this afternoon.’
‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘You know where my room is, don’t you? Through the Staff door in the lobby, down the stairs and it’s on the right. I’ll see you there at half past two.’
‘I know Blackburn like the back of my hand,’ Florrie says. ‘Which part of the town do you come from?’
‘Oh, we’re on the outskirts,’ Ruth replies as she hurries to finish her tea.
‘Oh?’ Florrie thinks she might have cottoned on to something. The silence that follows is deafening. When it’s obvious that Ruth has no intention of supplying further details Florrie starts again: ‘You’re a long way out of the centre, are you? A terrace, is it?’
Ruth nods by way of reply. She neglects to mention that the house is an end terrace. It is not in Ruth’s nature to be boastful, particularly with strangers. Both women know perfectly well that there’s a class hierarchy in terraced life. The further out of town, the better the terrace. The Singletons own an end terrace. It might as well be a semi. Ruth has only one immediate neighbour – although with the noise the Kerkleys make it sometimes sounds as if she’s got more. The Singletons’ end terrace is situated at the tree-lined town boundary, overlooking the town below and the moors beyond. It is, to quote the estate agent Ruth has had round recently, ‘a little gem’.
‘I lived on Le-banon Street before I was wed,’ Florrie volunteers. Ruth’s face is a picture of restraint. ‘They’re a good crowd on Lebanon,’ Florrie continues.
Ruth bites her lip. She is not only capable of pronouncing the name Lebanon correctly, she could point to the country on a map and quote freely from the Bible on the subject.
‘So, whereabouts on the tops are you? Anywhere near the Black Bull?’
It is a common habit locally to tie the location of anything in the town to the nearest pub. Ruth is not prey to this habit. She allows herself a vague ‘m-m-m’ as she replaces her cup in the saucer.
‘Oh, they’re all pastry forks and bay windows up there, aren’t they? Wouldn’t suit me. No, I like to be in the thick of things. I like to know what’s going on. Don’t you find it a nuisance being so far out of town? It means a lot of travelling,’ Florrie says as she’s sweetening her Alan’s second cup of tea for him.
‘It’s nice and quiet on the tops,’ Ruth replies, biting back the urge to say that it’s worth a six-penny bus journey to be away from dirty backstreets and the stink of mill chimneys.
‘There,’ Florrie says after she’s taken an exploratory sip, ‘that’s just nice.’ She passes the sweetened cup of tea over to Alan. Ruth can sense her nose turning up. She’s seen her mother do it countless times for her father; indeed, Ruth might have sweetened and sipped Jack’s tea herself had she not seen the light at night school. Quite apart from what constitutes good table manners, the practice is unhealthy and encourages the migration of germs. Elizabeth Craig is adamant about this.
‘They’re building some new houses up there, aren’t they?’ Florrie remarks casually.
‘Where?’
‘Up on the Boundary. Three-bedroom semis. I told Fred, I said, “They’ll never sell them! Who’d pay a fortune to live that far out of town?” It’s not even a local builder, is it?’
‘No, I don’t think it is.’
Florrie gives Ruth a shrewd look and says, ‘Got your eye on one of them, have you?’
This is an understatement. Ruth has not only got an eye on one of the new semis, she’s got a copy of the plans and the deposit as well. Not that she would ever admit to this. Talk of the semi involves two forbidden subjects: family and money. Ruth gets up from the table, anxious to make her escape.
‘She’s small for seven, your little girl. You did say she was seven, didn’t you? She looks nearer five to me. Very quiet, isn’t she?’
Ruth has heard the same from Beth’s teacher at school. ‘You know, Mrs Singleton,’ the teacher had ventured, ‘Beth, er, I mean Elizabeth is a bit too quiet, if you see what I mean. I’ve known children who appear quiet. But they’re not really. They’re hiding for some reason. They imagine if they’re quiet no one will notice them. Someone or something has frightened them. Have you noticed anything?’
‘Nothing,’ Ruth had replied with a firm shake of the head.
‘Well, she may not be breaking her toys or screaming, but this doesn’t mean she hasn’t got problems. She’s likely to tell you if you find the time to ask and listen to what she says.’ Seeing the expression on Ruth’s face, the teacher had added, ‘Well, perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe all she needs is a good cuddle and some reassurance. All of us could do with that, couldn’t we?’
The teacher had said all this in such a caring and reasonable tone that Ruth had been quite worried about it. Until, that is, she sat down and thought about it. Then she realised that it was all nonsense. Elizabeth is obedient because that’s the way she’s been brought up. Ruth expects her to be quiet and polite at all times. Who wants a cheeky daughter who’s forever shouting and misbehaving? Ruth stopped calling in at school after that. But the accusation still makes her angry.
Faced with Florrie’s comment, Ruth pushes her chair firmly back under the table. She gives Mrs Clegg a bleak, tight-lipped look but Florrie continues, ‘The poor mite. She’s so thin and pale. She looks as if she could do with plenty of good food and a nice bit of sunshine, wouldn’t you say?’
Ruth ignores the remark. She heads out into the lobby where there is a brief exchange of views between mother and daughter before Beth drops the newly won sixpence into a collection box for the local disabled.
Blackburn, November 1958
The revelation of Beth’s illness came as a direct result of Mrs Richmond having syringed her husband’s ears and thus rendered audible to him the heart whisper, the rhythmic sigh of a leaking valve and phantom echo of escaping pressure, that had accompanied the Singletons’ younger daughter throughout her six years. Beth stands before the old doctor as her mother peels off the layers of jumper and blouse, liberty bodice and vest. Dr Richmond places two pallid fingers above her shoulder blade and raps them sharply with the crooked fingers of his left hand. The exercise is repeated over the child’s back, Beth alive to the uneasy vibration and flinching away from the discomfort when her chest is sounded. Dr Richmond reaches for his stethoscope, places the steel nodes in his ear and rubs the bright circle on the palm of his hand. There is complete silence. Ruth presses her lips together, too frightened to breathe, resisting the urge to join in while Beth inhales and exhales to order. Both mother and child pant briefly when the stethoscope examination is concluded, Ruth for oxygen and Beth with pain.
Dr Richmond removes the stethoscope from his neck with deliberation and folds it carefully until the ancient black rubber settles into its accustomed cracks. Ruth immediately stiffens in the hard-backed chair she has been occupying since she and her younger daughter were summoned from their sojourn in the doctor’s waiting room – a two-hour wait during which Ruth had silently rehearsed all the reasons why she mistrusts the good doctor. If he’d been faster off the mark when she’d come to see him about her stomach pains back in 1950 she might have carried the child to full term. Of course, she doesn’t have any proof that it was a boy that she lost at thirteen weeks. But Ruth knows, as clearly as any real mother would know, that it was a boy. Sitting again in the same room waiting to see the same doctor, she had felt the old anger rising.
Dr Richmond sighs and says, ‘You can get this bonny little girl dressed again now.’
Ruth has recognised a number of traits in Elizabeth since birth, but ‘bonny’ is not one of them. It makes no difference how well she feeds Elizabeth, the child remains weak and tires easily. Her shoulders are permanently hunched over her chest, she sweats too easily and she still asks to be carried up hills. It is a back-breaking task for a woman over forty. Ruth has resisted seeing the doctor before now. Her relationship with old Dr Richmond is not an easy one.
In order to cover her impatience Ruth now busies herself with dressing the child, stretching the wool vest over her head and struggling with the curling rubber buttons on the Ladybird liberty bodice.
When decency is restored Dr Richmond ventures his professional opinion. ‘There might be a slight problem, Mrs Singleton,’ he says. This example of kindly understatement is characteristic of Dr Richmond. He has had cause on many occasions, when delivering bad news to anxious mothers, to adopt a certain reassuring ignorance of fatal consequences. He has no cures for pneumoconiosis (a familiar complaint among the miners at Bank Hall Colliery) or pulmonary embolism, or parietal gliomas, or any one of the number of terminal conditions he is forced to witness within the space of a single day. The varnish of confident infallibility afforded to the newly qualified has worn away over the years to reveal his humanity in all its uncertainty and inadequacy. He spends his mornings on call. His white starched cuffs are stained brown with iodine and rasp against his wrists as he takes pulses, measures blood pressures, pinches swollen ankles and tests stubborn joints. He rubs the folds of his softening jowls as he considers prescriptions or waits for the arrival of the ambulance. By late evening he has listened to a litany of complaints and drunk his way through all manner of liquid that passes for tea in the houses of the poor.
Only then does he return home to the silent remembrances of former patients. His house bulges with mortuary gifts: gold watches, pipe stands, copies of the Bible and amateur paintings of local landmarks. Patients leave wills that afford him war medals from battles fought in the Mediterranean or North Africa while he was busy delivering the next generation in the cold austerity of Bank Hall Maternity Home. Financial bequests from wealthier patients are spent on repairs to the roof of his surgery, coal fires in his waiting room, lollipops for his infant patients, outstanding rent for miners laid up with lung disease and weavers laid off with mill closures.
Ruth is aware of Dr Richmond’s reputation but, since she is not in need of charity or sympathy, she persists in her interrogation. ‘What is wrong with her?’
‘A slight chest irregularity. Probably minor, nothing to be anxious about. I have a colleague who might have a look at her. Mr Tomlinson at the hospital.’
‘He’s a heart man, isn’t he? Is it her heart? What’s wrong with it?’
‘It might be a circulation problem. You yourself have noticed she’s breathless sometimes. I thought I heard a slight whisper when I listened to her chest, but I could be mistaken. We doctors aren’t infallible.’
‘What do you mean, a whisper?’
‘Let’s wait until Mr Tomlinson has seen her, shall we? Then we’ll be sure what we’re talking about.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘I’ll have a word with him first thing tomorrow. He’s a good man. Can you take this little girl up tomorrow around two o’clock? Save all the bother of waiting for an appointment. Now I must get on, there are patients waiting to be seen.’
Ruth quits the surgery with some reluctance. She senses that there is something seriously wrong, but can get no further with old Richmond. She is too clever to be misled by his diagnostic hesitation, or the sudden availability of a hospital appointment. There is something wrong with her daughter and only Ruth’s iron restraint in the company of strangers keeps her from crying in the queue for the bus home.
4 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
SHORE CRAB
This crab often hides under the sand with just his eyes and feelers showing and so he may be difficult to spot. He can also appear unexpectedly from under a stone but beware! The green and black shore crab has two very sharp pincer claws; once he latches on to something he won’t let go! Score 20 for an unexpected appearance.
‘Bloomin’ ’eck, Ruth, how much longer?’ Jack has been hauling three deckchairs around the sands for all of twenty minutes while his wife searches for a suitable location. The perfect spot has to be at the furthest possible point from the pier (roughnecks), sewage outlets (polio) and any patch of sand that has even a trace of tar. It’s not an easy task. Jack’s patience, along with the muscles in his right arm, is stretched to the limit. It is only when Ruth stops, turns and begins to retrace her steps along the beach that Jack drops the three deckchairs, windbreak and bags in the sand and says, ‘That’s it! This’ll do, Ruth.’
Ruth looks unconvinced. She stops and assures herself that they are still some distance from the sea. This is important if they are to get their money’s worth out of the deckchairs. But it is only when she catches sight of the hordes of holidaymakers flooding down on to the beach behind her that she nods in agreement and Jack sighs with relief.
Jack puts up the deckchairs and windbreak, while Ruth unpacks the bags. Thus engaged, it is too late by the time they notice Mr and Mrs Sykes to take avoidance measures. Harry and Irene Sykes are, to quote their favourite expression, ‘bang up to date’ as only childless couples in their thirties can ever hope to be. Harry, sporting a pair of black winkle-picker shoes and green drainpipe trousers, sidles up. He has an extravagant quiff that teeters in the wind, and sideburns a good couple of inches longer than is decent for a man his age. Harry is foreman at Alexandria, a mill owned by Foster Brothers, the same company that employs Jack. He and Harry Sykes have known each other since Jack joined the firm but they have rarely, if ever, seen eye to eye. Despite this, Harry Sykes puts down his deckchairs next to Jack and says, ‘Fancy seeing you here, Jack. Mind if we join you?’
‘Of course not, Harry,’ Jack replies, suppressing the urge to bolt. Ruth meanwhile gives the interlopers the briefest of nods, then turns her back and begins to empty her grey tartan shopping bag of towels, sun cream, knitting and this week’s copy of Woman’s Own.
Irene Sykes perches prettily on the edge of the deckchair that Harry has assembled for her with a single flick of his wrist. She puts the white stilettos she has been carrying since she reached the sands under her chair, opens her handbag and pulls out a pink enamelled compact decorated with the silhouette of a black poodle. She checks her lipstick in the mirror first, using a brightly varnished nail to wipe away the inevitable smudges of matching pink lipstick from the corners of her mouth. Snapping the compact smartly shut, she flashes Jack a brilliant smile. In present company Irene may have both youth and beauty on her side, but still she regards Ruth with a careful eye. ‘Hello, Mrs Singleton,’ she ventures. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
‘And how’s little Beth. Getting better now, is she?’ Irene gives the child a look of heartfelt concern. Beth is wearing a blue mohair coat that ends just above her grey ankle socks and her head is wrapped in a yellow scarf.
‘Elizabeth is very well, thank you,’ Ruth replies in a tone designed to stifle any further questions.
‘Poor little mite.’ Mrs Sykes bends down and tickles Beth under her chin. ‘I knew you when you were a tiny baby.’
Beth gives Mrs Sykes her whole attention.
‘Your mum used to bring you to Baby Clinic every Tuesday. You were so good, you never cried. I had to weigh you every week to make sure that you were putting on enough weight and then write everything down in a special file. She was very late walking, wasn’t she, Mrs Singleton?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Ruth replies.
‘Oh, but she was. I recall the doctor and I were very worried about her at one point because she was so far behind the other babies.’ Ruth glares at Irene. ‘But of course you were ill. That’s why you were slow.’
Beth looks disappointed and returns to carving pictures of dogs in the sand.
Six years on and the memory of Irene Sykes writing ‘slow walker’ in the Baby Clinic file can still raise Ruth to fury. Irene Sykes may be a nurse, but she’s no children of her own so what on earth would she know about anything?
‘But you had the sweetest nature, Beth. Like a little angel.’
A lump rises in Irene’s throat. ‘How is she now, Mrs Singleton? I heard at work that she’d had the operation.’
‘She’s very well, thank you.’
‘The physiotherapist told me that you’d cancelled any further visits. I know she was quite concerned.’
‘She doesn’t need any more physiotherapy. I’m sure Miss Franks has other patients who need her attentions more than Elizabeth.’
Irene is doubtful, but the look on Ruth’s face persuades her to let the subject drop. In the ensuing silence Ruth picks up her knitting. ‘And how’s Helen?’ Irene asks, turning to the teenager.
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
It is obvious that further attempts at conversation are a waste of time, so Irene leans back in her deckchair and lazily crosses one immaculately groomed leg over the other, showing off her evenly tanned legs, her white net petticoat and next week’s washing in the process. She raises both arms, arching her slender back against the striped canvas. Her breasts rise against her scoop-necked bodice. Satisfied she has attracted the glance of every man in the vicinity, Irene closes her eyes against the glare of the sun and, smiling, relaxes.
Helen is overjoyed with her copy of the New Musical Express. There’s a big poster of Bobby Darin in this week and a two-page spread. It’s the only reason Helen bought the magazine. She flicks past the other articles (‘Things Elvis Keeps Dark’, ‘Marty Wilde and Bert Weedon – So Much in Common’ and ‘Jerry Keller’s “Here Comes Summer” Hits the Right Note’) and turns to the poster. According to the article Bobby has ‘a flashing personality, golden-brown skin, expressive eyebrows and dazzling white teeth’. The photo is only in black and white, but Helen can tell the description is all true. Bobby is wearing a tight shiny suit and he’s dancing. His left arm is raised while the fingers of his right hand curl round the blunt bulk of the microphone. He must be dancing because Helen can see his legs are bent and one knee is twisted out to reveal his shiny winkle-picker shoes. It’s enough to make Helen feel dizzy. She’s looked in her Collins School Atlas more than once to see where Bobby lives. She knows it’s a long way to America, but when she puts her thumb on Lancashire and her forefinger on New York it isn’t far at all. In her dreams it’s barely the distance of a breath and she’s there in Hollywood, slow-dancing with Bobby. Even now, in broad daylight, she’s irresistibly drawn to his photograph – the expression on his face when he looks directly into her eyes is enough to make her feel light-headed. Eventually she tears her eyes away from the poster and moves on to the columns of small print. Bobby, it says, was brought up in a rough neighbourhood where there were drunken fights and stabbings. Helen’s mouth falls open as she reads that Bobby grew up surrounded by cheats, thieves, drunks, armed Mafia gangs and prostitution (whatever that is) on every corner. The family was very poor, but Bobby says, ‘You could walk in our house and not see any furniture or anything, but love would hit you square in the mouth.’
Helen is deeply moved. It is terrible to think that her idol was brought up in a slum. Helen sometimes comes home from school with a bit of ink on her cuff and her mother always shouts, ‘Take that blouse off this minute. Anybody would think you’d been brought up in a slum.’
Helen’s grandma Catlow lives on Bird Street and her mother says the house is no better than a slum. This is why Helen only ever sees her grandma once a year at Christmas when Mum brings her up on the bus from Bird Street to visit. Still, it’s nice that Bobby has such a close, loving family. The only thing that hits Helen square in the mouth when she walks in after school is the smell of polish and the sound of her mother scrubbing.
Bobby doesn’t think school is up to much. He says, ‘You don’t know people or life through books. You learn by living and doing. You gotta go out in the world.’
Helen couldn’t agree more. Bobby says that when he told his mother he wasn’t going back to school she was disappointed, but she didn’t try to stop him. He told her, ‘Mom, it’s time I got out to see what makes it tick.’ Helen wishes she could leave school and get a job like Connie, but she doubts that her mother will let her. She looks again at the picture of Bobby. She caught sight of him yesterday on the television at the hotel. He was singing his hit song ‘Splish Splash’ followed by his new record, ‘Dream Lover’. Bobby Darin has been Helen’s dream lover ever since the moment she saw his photo on the front of Boyfriend magazine. He’s half Italian and you can tell. He’s got dark wavy hair and a brilliant smile. He’s a great dancer too. Not like the boys at school.
The memory of her last school soirée is still fresh in Helen’s mind. Not that it was any different from usual – the girls sitting on forms at one side of the gym and all the boys standing around at the other side. There was the usual mad rush when the music started, the thunder of pumps across the wooden floor as the boys raced across to grab the best girls. Helen had hoped that David Cooper, with his shock of strawberry-blond hair and black winkle-picker boots, might ask her to dance, but Hanson had got to her first. It happens every year – Hanson runs for East Lancs Schoolboys. Helen was refusing to dance even as Hanson was dragging her into the centre of the gym. As a result Helen spent the first part of the evening limping around the floor in the clutches of Hanson and the latter part watching in despair as her best friend Susan monopolised David Cooper. It would have been so different if Bobby had been there.
‘I hear the bastards are looking for a new manager at your place.’
Jack is familiar with Harry’s habit of referring to the mill owners as bastards and, under normal circumstances, barely bats an eyelid. But Ruth is easily offended and has a bee in her bonnet about bad language, especially in front of the girls. Jack looks pointedly at his daughters before giving Harry a warning glance and saying, ‘Aye. Tom Brierley finished last Friday.’
‘Irreplaceable, that one,’ Harry mutters, ‘they’ll not find another crawler that fast.’
Jack sighs and shakes his head. It was Brierley who refused to have Harry back as foreman after the war, so the company shifted Sykes to Alexandria Mill. Harry took it badly. Alexandria still has the old looms and as a result weaves tea towels rather than the fancy work that’s done in the weaving shed where Jack works. Even promotion to head foreman at Alexandria Mill failed to sweeten the pill where Harry was concerned – he was, as he was always at pains to point out, still being paid less than what he would have got if he’d stayed put. Worse, Jack replaced him as foreman at Prospect. All this has resulted in the relationship between Jack and Harry Sykes being strained, to say the least. If there’s a smile on Harry’s face at the moment it’s because he’s after something. ‘Any idea who’s taking over?’ he asks.
‘No idea,’ Jack replies, squinting at the sea and opening his paper.
‘I suppose we’ll find out when the bosses are good and ready.’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s a puzzle, though,’ Harry persists. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since I heard Brierley was finishing, but there’s been nothing in the paper. I asked that Union bloke… what’s his name? Tom Bell. I asked him, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. Claims he’s no idea who’ll get the job. I wouldn’t mind a shot at it myself. A damn sight more money than Alexandria. Bastards must have it sewn up. I reckon one of the family will take over, what do you think? There must be a useless uncle or idiot cousin somewhere who’s after a slice of the cake.’ Harry throws the question casually, but he’s watching for Jack’s reaction.
‘Aye, probably you’re right.’
‘They’ve always kept management in the family. Up until Brierley. And Brierley wouldn’t have got the job if both Foster brothers hadn’t jumped ship when war was declared. They viewed World War II from the comfort of their London club along with the rest of the fireside fusiliers. And Brierley wasn’t slow to cash in. God knows how much he made in bribes from cowards keen to be designated “reserved occupation”.’
Jack has heard all this before. Some people haven’t moved on since the war – instead of looking ahead to the sixties they seem to be still stuck in the forties. Jack is usually optimistic, always looking to the future but things have changed. The letter in his back pocket has drawn him back into the past so effectively that he struggles even to remain in the present moment, let alone consider the future. Jack suppresses a sigh and says, ‘Weather’s not bad, is it?’
‘Looks to me as if it’s spoiling for rain later. I hear you had a rough do last week. Little bird told me that you very nearly had a walk-out.’
‘It was nothing. Just a few troublemakers.’
‘Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You were bound to get trouble the minute you brought those Pakis in.’
‘The Pakistanis are doing the jobs that no one else wants, so they’re not taking anyone’s job. They’re working the night shift because no one else will.’
‘Well, I warned you. I said you’d regret the day you let foreigners in. They don’t know the first thing about weaving. You’ve got your regular weavers coming in of a morning and not able to do a decent day’s work. Those Pakis on night shift leave their looms in a right state. They’re either broken or choked with muck. How are the day shift ever going to make a decent wage if half their looms are out of action? They’re standing around waiting for a tackler to fix the mess. It’s why I won’t take on Pakis, I wouldn’t even let them sweep the mill yard. They’re all the same. More trouble than they’re worth.’
‘They’re not all the same.’
‘Well, they look it. Can you tell the difference between one Paki and another? It’s beyond me.’
‘They’re not all Pakistanis. Some of them are Sikhs from the Punjab or Muslims from Bangladesh.’
‘There’s no difference. They were all swinging in trees before they came here and made a beeline for the National Assistance. Fuckin’ Fosters – they draft in all these wogs and expect the British workers to lay out the welcoming mat. Buggers that were happy to work all hours for a bowl of rice back in India – no wonder they think they’re well off when they get here. And once they are here, this bloody country will keep them for the rest of their lives, one way or another. No wonder the minute they get here they’re filling in the forms to bring across their whole bloody tribe.’
Jack has heard this argument countless times and it never fails to annoy him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Pakistanis. I’ve not had any bother with them. They’re quiet, they work hard and keep themselves to themselves. Our weavers aren’t beyond sabotaging their looms before the night shift comes on and they don’t complain. And I’ve yet to see a Pakistani turn up to work still drunk from the night before.’
‘But that’s just it. They don’t kick up. Management can do anything it likes, and that bunch will roll over and ask for more. Seven quid nine and ten a week and they aren’t complaining. It’s a fortune to them.’
‘Aye, and how long does it last when landlords are charging them the earth just for a roof over their heads? And any money they do manage to save is sent back abroad to feed their families. They’re no different from you and me – they’re trying to do their best for their families just like us.’
Jack has first-hand experience of the sort of squalor that immigrants have to cope with. There’s so much prejudice locally that the only accommodation they can find is in houses that should have been pulled down years ago in the worst part of town. Last month there’d been a mix-up with the wages and Jack had ended up going round to drop off Ahmed Khan’s overtime money. He’d found Ahmed along with a dozen fellow Pakistanis sharing the same house. No furniture – just mattresses on the floor of every room. No curtains, just blankets flapping with the draught. They’d had a bunch of local lads round a couple of nights before shouting abuse and smashing the windows. The landlord was charging them twenty-five bob each a week. Despite this he refused to get the windows repaired. Claimed it was a waste of time – they’d just get broken again. No heating whatsoever and the back gate had been kicked in. Jack has read about the West Indian riots in London a year ago and he reckons that Lancashire’s Asian community won’t be far behind.
‘I blame the government,’ Harry says. ‘They’re saying there’ll be another election before the end of the year. The Tories have been a bloody waste of time. They behave as if we still had an empire. It’s not two minutes since they were showing bloody Gandhi around the Lancashire mill towns. They should have kicked his chocolate arse and sent him home. No sooner have we given these darkies their independence than the buggers are getting on the nearest banana boat and coming here. And it’s not just these wogs turning up on our doorstep; there are thousands of them brown bastards back in India flooding our markets with cheap, coarse staple cotton.’
Jack sighs with frustration. Lancashire cotton has been threatened by foreign competition before, but it has always risen to the challenge. The industry has invented new fabrics like Fabriflex – a combed cotton weave bonded to a plastic backing – and special luxury finishes on cotton shoe linings that make them feel like finest kid. There’s even talk now of producing fake fur fabric, if the Cotton Board can sell the idea to the clothing industry. Once the car trade had been sold the idea of replacing leather seats with cotton-backed plastic Leathercloth they couldn’t get enough of it. Leathercloth is wipe-clean, lasts a good deal longer and resists the stains that ruin leather. It’s a nuisance that Leathercloth smells of plastic rather than rich leather, but appearancewise there’s not a lot to choose between them. With the invention of all these new British fabrics foreign competition really shouldn’t be the worry that it is. Jack turns to Harry and says, ‘Give it a rest, Harry. I don’t want to spend my holiday arguing the toss with you about work.’
Beth has been sitting cross-legged at her mother’s feet during this exchange of views. She turns now and taps her mother’s knee. ‘What’s a wog?’ she asks in a stage whisper. Ruth appears not to hear. She is apparently immersed in her Woman’s Own.
‘Mummy! What’s a wog?’
‘What?’
‘What’s a wog? Is it like a golliwog? Like one of those golliwogs on the jam jar?’
‘Shut up and play quietly.’
‘But what is it? What does it mean?’
‘It’s what ignorant people call other people with different-coloured skin. It’s very rude. Don’t ever let me hear you using that word.’
‘But Mr Sykes does. Mr Sykes says there are loads of wogs at the mill.’
‘Do you want a slap?’
Beth shakes her head and moves out of range of her mother’s hand.
Jack returns to the relative safety of his newspaper and Harry, keen to make amends, says, ‘Aye, well. How are your lasses getting on, Jack?’ Sykes’s eye lingers overlong on the figure of Helen sitting in a deckchair at the other side of her father, her head still buried in the NME. ‘Would they like an ice cream?’
‘Well…’ Jack hesitates; he is anxious not to reject this peace offering but aware of Ruth’s silent fury.
‘Come on, Jack. They’re on holiday. Irene! Here’s a couple of bob. Go and get the kids some ice cream.’
‘All by myself?’ Irene objects.
Jack nudges Helen. ‘Give Mrs Sykes a hand with the ices. Small ones, mind.’
5 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
ICE CREAM
Everyone loves ice cream, especially on a hot day. Where did you buy your ice cream? From a shop or from an ice-cream van parked on the sands? Score 5 points for a big ice cream!
‘Haven’t I seen you working at the dress shop on Penny Street?’ Irene asks when they’re out of earshot. ‘Do you like?’
‘Oh, yes. I love it. I just work Saturdays, but Blanche has offered me full time over the summer.’
‘I thought you were still at school.’
‘I am,’ Helen admits, ‘but I want to leave this summer.’
‘I’ll bet that hasn’t gone down too well with your mother.’
‘No,’ agrees Helen. ‘She goes mad every time I mention it.’
Helen looks closely at her confidante. Mrs Sykes has a look of Debbie Reynolds. Her hair is newly bleached and permed. A professional perm – nothing like the frizzy Toni Home Perm that her mother uses every few months. Mrs Sykes is the last word in style and not a hair out of place, despite the breeze.
‘I got this dress from Kendal’s in Manchester and I bought the hat at the same time. What do you think?’ Mrs Sykes raises a hand to the white feathers that curl round the crown of her head.
‘It’s a lovely dress,’ breathes Helen, ‘and the hat looks nice against your hair.’
Helen knows that the dress alone will have cost the best part of ten guineas. It’s pink with three-quarter-length sleeves and white turn-back cuffs.
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Sykes smiles. ‘That’s quite a compliment from someone who works for Blanche.’
It is Helen’s turn to be flattered. ‘Oh, I’m just the Saturday girl but you’d be surprised how many customers we get in to buy last-minute dresses for their holidays. And lots of them ask me what I think. We’ve barely a rail of summer dresses left. Blanche has had to order more from the suppliers. She’ll have been busy with all the work pressing and pricing up…’
Helen’s voice trails off in disappointment. It is not merely the money she could be earning; she misses the excitement of all the new dresses and the crush of customers all wanting her attention. Helen is treated like an adult from the moment she starts work until the shop shuts and she reluctantly returns home.
‘You must be worth your weight in gold to Blanche.’ Helen smiles and a blush of pleasure advances up her cheeks. ‘Do you get paid a bonus for all the dresses you sell?’ Irene asks.
It is common to discuss money and terribly impolite to ask about anything as personal as wages. Helen would love to tell Mrs Sykes that she gets five per cent on every dress she sells but years of conditioning prevent her.
Helen has a natural aptitude for sales. It is to Helen that Blanche turns for an ‘up-to-date opinion’ when a customer can’t make up her mind between a shot satin decolletage and a backless velvet cocktail dress. It is an unwritten rule that Helen recommends the more expensive gown, thereby maximising Blanche’s profit margin and Helen’s percentage. There has only ever been one exception to the rule. Mrs Taylor came in shortly after Helen started working in the shop. She was in search of an outfit for her daughter’s wedding and was very taken with a bright-blue suit that drew attention to her varicose veins and drained her face of colour. Helen managed to persuade Mrs Taylor into a cheaper floral dress in peach with matching jacket. It was only when she was ringing up the sale that she noticed Blanche looking daggers from the entrance to the dressing rooms. A sharp exchange between owner and assistant followed Mrs Taylor’s triumphant exit from the shop. Despite Helen’s hopes that the customer, content with her purchase, might return to the shop on future occasions Blanche was adamant, ‘That beggar won’t come in again this side of Preston Guild. Eileen Taylor’s a cheapskate. She buys mail order.’
This is the worst insult Blanche can ever bestow. Mail order sells mass-produced ill-fitting summer dresses for a fraction of the price. A thirty-five-shilling dress from Gammage’s Mail Order Catalogue retails at nearer four guineas in the front window of Blanche Fashions. Customers at the shop are provided with a personal fitting service undertaken by a qualified member of staff (Eva during the week and Helen on Saturdays). Their purchases are lovingly folded in tissue paper to prevent undue creasing and placed reverentially in a candy-striped box with pink rope carrier handles. Certain clients, due to their long-standing custom or the professional nature of their husbands’ work, are deemed worthy of the personal attention of Blanche herself. Such was Blanche’s fury following Mrs Taylor’s purchase that Helen was forced to stay late to sponge face-powder stains off necklines and press various garments before returning them to their hangers. Helen would have had to stay longer had she not pricked her finger while mending a hem ripped earlier by a careless stiletto. It wouldn’t have mattered if the dress had been black, but Blanche, terrified of getting blood on the cream crêpe de Chine, snatched the dress out of Helen’s weary grasp and dismissed her with a wave.
‘What do you spend your wages on? Do you get cut-price dresses?’ Mrs Sykes asks.
‘No. I mean I could if I asked, but Mum thinks the sort of dresses Blanche sells are too old for me. Anyway, I’m saving up for a Dansette record player.’
‘Oh, do you like Cliff?’
‘He’s OK, but I like Bobby Darin better. He’s gorgeous. I wish I could see him.’
‘It was rock and roll night at the Mechanics’ Institute last Friday. You should have gone. They were playing all the hit parade. Tommy Steele, Cliff Richards, Billy Fury.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Mechanics’ – there’s a bar on Fridays, isn’t there?’
‘They wouldn’t throw you out, you know. It’s mostly teenagers that go there.’
‘Oh, well, I normally go to the Methodist youth club on Fridays.’ Irene Sykes bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, poor you! I don’t suppose they allow any dancing there, do they?’
‘Well, you couldn’t anyway. There’s no record player. But there’s table tennis and the only reason they don’t allow darts is in case someone gets hurt.’
‘They’re a po-faced lot, the Methodists. Don’t crack a smile from one year’s end to the next. I’ll bet they have you hymn singing every five minutes, don’t they?’
Helen shakes her head. ‘We don’t sing hymns but there’s a prayer at the end. After we’ve said the Lord’s Prayer, that is.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Anyway, I heard Bobby Darin is coming to do a concert in Manchester next year. It’ll be expensive. You’ll have to get your dad to buy tickets. You’ll have loads of money if your dad is made manager at Prospect. I expect he’s up for the job, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. Dad never talks about work.’
Mrs Sykes looks into the wide innocence of Helen’s face and changes tack. ‘I’ll bet you have a lot of fun working at the shop. You must hear all the gossip.’
Helen smiles. ‘No. Not really.’ It has been drummed into Helen that it is common to gossip. This is a source of frustration to her since there is nothing more intimately satisfying than information shared with another woman. Confusingly, Helen is invited to retell gossip at home to her mother, but only when her sister and father are absent. Even when she tells her mother what has been happening in the shop Ruth, having listened carefully, doesn’t react as she should. Helen’s stories fail to elicit a single gasp or squeal of amusement from her mother. Ruth will only shake her head and say ‘It’s a disgrace’, and carry on washing up. Mrs Sykes, on the other hand, looks like a woman who would appreciate stories garnered from the shop. It’s a temptation.
‘I hear Mrs Booth is spending like it’s going out of fashion. I saw her last Wednesday coming out of that fancy hairdresser’s on Scotland Road and carrying four bags from Blanche’s. She must have spent a fortune.’ Mrs Sykes pauses in the hope of Helen volunteering further information.
‘I don’t know. I’m not there during the week.’
‘Haven’t you heard? She’s only come up on the pools! Her husband was too drunk to do it on Tuesday, so she filled the coupon herself – and she won! When he’d sobered up he was furious. Demanded all the money because it was his name on the coupon. When she refused he tried to get her drunk and steal it.’
Mrs Booth, thin as a stick and a committed member of both the Methodist Mothers’ Club and the Temperance Society, is known locally for her aversion to all the sins and vices that afflict her fellow man. When Mrs Booth is on youth club duty she won’t even let them mess about on the piano in case they play the boogie woogie or, worse, rock and roll. The idea of Mrs Booth filling in a pools coupon of all things is too much for Helen who, despite her best efforts, starts to laugh.
‘And that woman who lives on Reedley Road… what’s her name? Irishwoman – smokes like a chimney. Donahue. Mrs Donahue. She got into a fight in the chip shop and laid out the assistant. Talk about “fryin’ tonight”.’ Irene winks, nudges Helen in the ribs and both of them burst out laughing.
Helen watches as Mrs Sykes opens her white leather handbag and takes out a Stratton compact. She flips the lid open and powders her nose while Helen looks on, filled with admiration and envy in equal amounts. Mrs Sykes’s handbag overflows with sophistication. Besides a well-filled floral make-up bag, there’s a packet of tipped cigarettes, a special back combing brush, nail clippers and a bottle of Soir de Paris perfume. Mrs Sykes takes her appearance seriously.
When they reach the head of the queue Helen, mindful of her complexion, refuses the offer of an ice cream. Mrs Sykes orders and pays for the most expensive ice cream available for Beth before Helen can stop her. Purchase completed, Irene and Helen head back. It is 11.30 and the beach is packed. Helen has read in the paper that a quarter of a million visitors have arrived in the resort this week and, by the look of it, they’ve all headed for the beach. There isn’t a clear patch of sand to be seen between the striped deckchairs, windbreaks, sunburnt bodies and discarded clothes. Irene and Helen thread their way through a cheerful, noisy crowd of mill workers and their families breathing in boisterous lung-fuls of ozone instead of coal dust and cotton lint. Progress is slow. Both women are forced to step over bags and towels, inch round windbreaks and skirt a confusion of deckchairs and sunbathers. Frustrated, Irene guides Helen to the water’s edge where the only obstacles are paddlers and the odd sandcastle. Once they are free of the crowd Irene asks, ‘Do you see anything of Cora Lloyd? She’s a friend of your mother’s, isn’t she? Or is Cora too posh nowadays for Blanche’s shop?’
‘Oh no, she comes in a lot.’ Helen is anxious to defend Cora, whom she has known and loved since she was a child.
‘You’re lucky to see her. I sometimes wonder where she’s hiding herself; I see so little of her nowadays.’
This is not quite true. Such is Irene’s fascination with Cora that she tries to bump into her as often as possible. If there were any justice, Irene would see her every Tuesday at the Baby Clinic. Cora Lloyd has flattened enough grass in her time for it to be suspicious that she never falls pregnant. Irene’s special interest in Cora dates back to before the war. Harry and Irene hadn’t been courting very long when Cora made a play for him one night at the Red Lion. Irene was forced to confront Cora in the ladies’ lavatory. She had, Irene argued, no right to be flirting with Harry when everybody knew he was ‘spoken for’. Cora didn’t bat an eyelid. She carried on powdering her nose and fixing her lipstick until Irene felt a fool standing there waiting for a reply. When at last Cora did speak it was to tell Irene that she wouldn’t touch Harry with a bargepole. Cora could ‘do a damn sight better than Harry Sykes’.
True to her word, Cora had married Ronald Lloyd – deputy manager at Barclays Bank – before the war was over. She thereby gained entry into an exclusive social circle that Irene would kill to be a part of. However, all attempts to get on to genial terms with Cora following her marriage have been marked by failure. Cora is not forthcoming. Irene is painfully aware that Ruth Singleton is always invited to Cora’s parties, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone trying to get anything out of Ruth. Irene thinks she stands a better chance with Helen.
‘I remember when Cora was Cotton Queen,’ Irene begins. ‘Oh, long before you were born.’
‘I didn’t know she was a Cotton Queen.’
‘Oh, yes. She was the talk of the town. All the men thought she was a real catch. It’s amazing she stayed single as long as she did. Do you know her husband?’
‘Yes, he comes in the shop sometimes.’ Helen is familiar with Ronald Lloyd and she dislikes him intensely. He always tries to fumble her while Cora is busy with Blanche in the dressing room. It is hard to tell which is worse, her embarrassment or her disgust. Mr Lloyd is quick on his feet despite his size. He creeps up behind Helen at every opportunity with his sweaty hands and his unctuous smile.
‘I hear she’s been poorly,’ Irene continues.
‘Has she?’ ‘Well, I’ve not seen her out and about for a bit. When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Last Saturday. She was in to buy dresses for her holiday.’
‘I bet she bought loads.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘What were they like? I bet they were gorgeous. Strapped sundresses?’
‘No, she didn’t look at the sundresses. She was trying on dresses with matching jackets.’
Mrs Sykes looks shocked. ‘Where is she going on her holidays? Somewhere nice, I bet. Certainly not Blackpool.’
‘Blanche said she was going to the Costa Brava.’
‘That’s Spain, isn’t it? That’ll have cost a pretty penny. Well, she’ll not be needing a jacket, it’s supposed to be boiling hot there, isn’t it? Blanche must have misheard.’
‘No.’
‘Then why would she cover herself up like that? With her figure it doesn’t make sense.’
Helen thinks back. Cora had been in the dressing rooms when Helen had poked her head round the curtain to tell Blanche that the rep was asking for her. It was little more than a brief glimpse but Helen saw that Cora’s right shoulder and arm looked bruised. Helen hadn’t thought any more about it until Blanche had given her Cora’s purchases to wrap. Four summer dresses with matching jackets or long-sleeved boleros. Cora has an account at the shop and Helen had watched her struggle to sign her name in the book. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she had asked.
‘Just a fall. I shouldn’t be so clumsy,’ Cora had replied and that was the end of the conversation. Cora had arranged for the bags to be delivered and she’d left.
‘She said she’d had a fall,’ Helen says.
‘A fall? Poor Cora. Was she badly bruised?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But she is bruised. I knew it. That husband of hers is knocking her about.’
There’s a note of triumph in Mrs Sykes’s voice that makes Helen uncomfortable.
‘It was nothing. Just her right arm.’
‘You mean that’s all she’ll admit to.’
Helen purses her lips and resolves to say nothing more. The rest of the walk is conducted in silence.
Beth hates everything about the beach, from the concrete ripples of sand that hurt her feet to the sting of salt water. No trip to the sands is complete without her bucket and spade. The red-painted bucket used to belong to Helen and is rusted at the bottom with the residue of many summers’ salt water. The handle is a thick ridge of flaking tin that cuts into Beth’s fingers when she carries a load of water back from the waves at the edge of the beach. Although the top rim of the bucket is rolled over, the bottom edge is as sharp as a knife. The bucket bangs against the front of her thighs when she hauls it back from the water’s edge. The long spade is worse. When Beth grasps it halfway up the wooden haft the tin spade still takes the skin off the back of her heel as she drags it across the sand or cuts into her instep when she tries to dig. Playing on the beach is an activity that other children enjoy. Beth watches them building sandcastles, playing with beach balls and screaming as they run into the waves. This morning’s misery is interrupted by the return of her sister and Mrs Sykes.
‘Here, young lady. I’ve got you a proper ice cream. There! I’ll bet you’ve not seen one of those before,’ Mrs Sykes says with some satisfaction.
Beth nods dumbly. She hasn’t. Two scoops in a double cornet – chocolate one side and strawberry on the other. Beth’s wrist strains with the effort of holding it upright.
Ruth is momentarily thrown by the sheer extravagance and then annoyed. ‘That’s far too much. You shouldn’t have bought such a big one,’ she says, pointing to the offending ice cream. ‘I’d have thought you’d know how bad ice cream is for children’s teeth. Not to mention the danger of a chill.’
‘A chill? In this weather? What are you thinking of? Come on, pet, get it eaten before it melts.’
Both women stare at the child. Beth is anxious to please. She opens her mouth to take a big bite.
‘You’ll be sick,’ Ruth says. And, as if by magic, Beth feels her throat rise. She is sitting cross-legged at her father’s feet, in full view. There is nowhere to hide. Trickles of pink ice cream run from the soggy cornet and gather round her wrist and still she is watched.
‘Hurry up and eat it before it melts. I shall be in bother with your mother if you get it all over your clothes.’
Beth takes a lick. Mrs Sykes smiles.
‘Have you said thank you, Elizabeth?’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Sykes.’
‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’
Another drool of melted ice slithers down her thumb. Unable to win the argument, Ruth takes up her knitting with increased ferocity. Although Beth has her back to her mother she can still feel the backwash of maternal fury. Beth’s wrist is beginning to ache from the strain. The twin scoops will topple from their temporary mooring on the cornet unless Beth keeps the whole monstrous confection upright. Above her head Mr and Mrs Sykes make preparations to leave and she is forgotten. With infinite care Beth moves forward on to her knees and crawls round the back of her father’s deckchair. She scoops a big hole in the sand with one hand and, with the other, she buries the ice cream. When she crawls back round she catches her mother’s eye. Experience has taught Beth that, under these circumstances, it’s best to keep her head down and her mouth shut until the storm passes.
6 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
COLLECTION BOX
If you look carefully you’ll often see collection boxes on the promenade. Some of them are quite unusual – perhaps it’s an old mine from the war, or a big model lifeboat, or even a disarmed depth charge and thrower! Where is your favourite charity box? Score a generous 15 points.
The Singleton family are returning to their hotel room after lunch when Helen pulls her dad to one side. She waits until her mother and Beth disappear round the corner before saying, ‘Can I go out this afternoon?’
‘Where do you want to go?’ Jack asks.
‘Just for a coffee.’
‘Have you told your mother?’
‘It’s only a coffee, Dad. I’ll be back before teatime.’
Jack reaches into his pocket for a coin. ‘Here you are.’
Helen takes the coin and is gone in a flash. Jack shakes his head and continues to make his way up the stairs.
The Belvedere prides itself on being a superior hotel, and so it appears from a casual glance, from its mock-Georgian portico to its oak-panelled main staircase. No expense has been spared. The plush crimson and gold pile carpet that graces the exclusive Residents’ Lounge extends throughout the immaculate ground floor. Sadly this reputation for luxury and cleanliness falters and finally fails when Helen passes through the STAFF ONLY door. Once her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she makes out a flight of steps that leads to a warren of dimly lit dog-legged corridors. The air reeks of overcooked vegetables and rising damp. She peers at each well-worn and heavily scratched door as she moves through the darkness. Connie, when Helen finds her, is in room three. She is leaning over the washbasin in the corner and squinting into a tiny mirror as she applies another layer of Mediterranean-blue eyeshadow.
‘Hiya!’ Connie shouts in answer to Helen’s polite knock. ‘Come in. Won’t be a sec.’
Helen steps over the threshold and looks around. Connie appears caught in the eye of a storm of personal possessions. Along with the piles of indiscriminate refuse there are copies of Boyfriend magazine (a weekly that Helen would kill to read) and various piles of clothes. Helen is faced with a chaotic mêlée of items from hairclips to powder puffs and discarded food and drink. Various articles of clothing are scattered across the cracked brown lino. A greying bra with circular stitching round the cone-shaped cups is hanging off the back of a chair piled high with discarded skirts and tops. The ledge above the washbasin is crammed with cosmetics, perfume and an overturned can of talc, and the towel rail below is home to several odd stockings, a pair of knickers and a single hand towel. Under the sink Helen spots a curled pink corset with suspenders attached.
‘You’ve got one of those new corsets. It’s a roll-on, like in the adverts. Is it comfy?’
‘Yeah. It’s great. A lot better than the old-fashioned girdles. Those things dig in all over the place. It’s a Playtex elastic. Dead easy. Just roll it on and roll it off.’
‘I wish I had one. Mum won’t get me one; she says I’ve no figure to keep in so I just have a cotton suspender belt. The waist has gone and it’s always slipping down. You’re so lucky, you’ve got so much stuff. I mean I can’t believe you have so many clothes!’
‘Oh, well, you’re welcome to borrow anything. If you fancy any of my skirts or anything. Hey! I’ll bet we’re the same shoe size. Why don’t you try on my new stilettos?’ Connie flaps her free hand in the direction of the bed. ‘They’re under there, I think.’
Helen struggles to ignore the sound of her mother’s voice in her ear: ‘Never try on shoes that someone else has had on. You’ll end up with verrucas… or worse, some kind of transmitted disease.’ But the prospect of seeing herself in a pair of white stilettos is too exciting to refuse. Helen bends and pulls out a Freeman Hardy & Willis box from under the bed. It is disappointingly empty save for a couple of sanitary towels, an emery board and tenpence ha’penny in copper. Helen resumes the search. At last she spots one shoe in the bottom of the gaping wardrobe and the other under the washbasin. Helen slips on the shoes and struggles to her feet. The heels are vertiginous – so much so that she is afraid to walk and as a result is reduced to standing still and swaying slightly.
‘They look great,’ Connie assures her. ‘I’m wearing them myself this afternoon otherwise you could borrow them.’
‘It’s OK,’ Helen replies. ‘I don’t think I’d be able to walk in them anyway.’
‘You have to practise, but you get the knack after a bit.’
Helen opens her handbag and pulls out a piece of newspaper. ‘Here, look what I found in the paper.’ Helen passes Connie a clipping that reads:
PLANS ASSISTANT
The Land Registry has a vacancy for a Junior Plans Assistant.
Applicants must be aged between 16 and 18 and have
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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Sallie Day
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: I-SPY AT THE SEASIDEHello, children! Welcome to your very own I-Spy Book. In these pages you’ll be able to look for all kinds of secret, exciting things that are found only by the sea.Blackpool, 1959. The Singleton family is on holiday. For seven-year-old Beth, just out of hospital, this means struggling to fill in her ‘I-Spy’ book and avoiding her mother Ruth’s eagle-eyed supervision. Her sixteen-year-old sister Helen, meanwhile, has befriended a waitress whose fun-loving ways hint at a life beyond Ruth’s strict rules.But times are changing. As foreman of the local cotton mill, Ruth’s husband Jack is caught between unions and owners whose cost-cutting measures threaten an entire way of life. And his job isn’t the only thing at risk. When a letter arrives from Crete, a secret re-emerges from the rubble of Jack’s wartime past that could destroy his marriage.As Helen is tempted outside the safe confines of her mother’s stern edicts, with dramatic consequences, an unexpected encounter inspires Beth to forge her own path. Over the holiday week, all four Singletons must struggle to find their place in a shifting world of promenade amusements, illicit sex and stilted afternoon teas, in this touching and extraordinarily evocative novel.