The Palace of Strange Girls (11 page)

This delicate flower grows quite easily at the seaside. It has a thin stem and a filigree head with lots of fine pale pink
or white petals. Score 10 points for a sparing little flower.

P
rospect, Fosters’ first cotton mill, was built in 1756 on the principle of thrift. Economy was employed at every stage—from
the initial utilitarian design in local stone to the purchase of secondhand Lancashire looms. Although late to the game, Elias
Foster was nevertheless destined for success. He was intent on following in the footsteps of the first northern entrepreneurs.
Those men with enough capital to borrow more and a taste for risk. It was these northerners who had seen in Lancashire—with
its mists and fogs, its drizzle and rain—the perfect climate for keeping cotton damp enough to weave. Elias Foster was a modest
but determined individual. He declined to join his fellow mill owners as they traveled together to the Manchester cotton market
in a coach and four. Elias, guided as always by the principle of thrift, rose before dawn and walked. For the most part Elias
was regarded with the natural suspicion that accompanies any newcomer to the trade. John Thompson of Lees Bank Mill had it
on good authority that the diminutive owner of Prospect Mill was still hand-spinning in his front room the previous week.
Some of the merchants and buyers were provoked to laughter by this and the sight of Elias Foster’s spare frame hidden under
a heavily patched and darned coat. Nevertheless it is this very attachment to thrift that will see Elias Foster through the
long years of cotton famine between 1861 and 1865, when his fellow mill owners will struggle and finally sink. He lives modestly,
cheek by jowl with his spinners and constantly close at hand to the mills he owns. When, in 1761, the new Mrs. Foster presents
Elias with twin sons the future of Prospect Mill is assured.

The mill, a four-story edifice, occupies a triangular site between the road, railway and canal. It is tailor-made to convert
the maximum amount of raw fiber into fine cotton thread in the minimum amount of time. Bales of raw cotton are winched from
canal boats up to the top floor of the mill, where they are weighed, cotton merchants being somewhat lax in supplying the
full weight if they think they can get away with it. When the inspectors are happy with the weight and quality, the bales
are opened and sent down to the cleaning room below. Here the cotton is thoroughly broken down, mixed, blended and beaten.
Only then is it deemed fit to be passed to the next stage. Down in the carding room the cotton is stripped of all its impurities
and combed into a single loose strand, then it is drawn so that all the straightened fibers overlap to strengthen the strand
before it is spun. Here Mr. Crompton’s magnificent invention comes into its own, drawing and spinning the cotton into finer
and finer thread, then twisting the yarn on to cones and spindles ready for weaving. Prospect Mill can produce 4,000 yards
of yarn from every single mule of 1,200 spindles. Only when the cotton yarn has passed through all these processes does it
reach the ground floor. From here it is shipped out to the waiting weaving sheds.

Within two years of opening, Prospect Mill has earned enough money to finance the construction of a weaving shed adjacent
to the main building. The weaving shed is supplied with the latest “fireproofing” measures, the ceiling is supported by iron
pillars and arched brickwork instead of wooden beams. The concertina-shaped roof is divided into a dozen triangles, each complete
with north-facing glass roof lights to let in the maximum amount of daylight needed to weave the best cotton.

By the time Jack Singleton takes over as foreman, Prospect Mill weaving shed houses over 200 looms producing 1,000 yards an
hour. And still it’s not enough for Fosters to show a decent profit, even with added night shifts. The only way out of the
crisis is to re-equip the weaving shed with automatic looms: twice the product at half the price. Elias would approve.

Ruth is walking at a furious pace, her Gannex raincoat flapping and her shopping bag banging against her leg. It is Wednesday
and Ruth is programmed to shop. Having put some distance between herself and the beach, she slows her pace and debates which
road to take first. That’s the beauty of an unfamiliar town—all the shops are scattered at random. It gives Ruth an extra
thrill. In the year since she last sampled the Blackpool shops various businesses have moved into the town. It has been nonstop
expansion since the war. Bigger, brighter stores that stock a range of luxury goods that Ruth can’t get in Blackburn have
replaced some of the old corner shops.

She calls at Timothy White’s first to buy some calamine lotion and another bottle of Dettol for the hotel toilet. It rattles
her to think that other hotel guests on the corridor will also have the benefit of her disinfectant, but it can’t be helped.
The task accomplished, she is free to move to the kitchenware part of the store and indulge her obsession. Ruth Singleton
is a fool to herself. She is unable to resist the siren song of kitchen gadgets. Timothy White’s have the ultimate domestic
machine—a Kenwood Chef—on display. This is far beyond Ruth’s price range, so she turns her attention to the more modest end
of labor-saving utensils. She purchases these utensils in expectation, one day, of having the modern kitchen that she deserves.
The day when she exchanges her pot sink and wooden draining board, complete with curtain to hide the pipes, for a stainless-steel
model with a mixer tap; the day when she has a sparkling fifteen-guinea Frigidaire fridge, with special ice compartment, instead
of a green-painted meat safe covered in wire mesh. The day when she is the proud owner of a Creda Carefree Electric Cooker,
with hob settings for every occasion; that happy morn when she exchanges the old wooden kitchen table for wipe-clean Formica,
and her brush and shovel for a brand-new Hoover vac.

To this end Ruth has learned to be thrifty. Every Friday teatime Jack comes in with his wage packet and opens it at the sideboard,
while Ruth lays the table. She doesn’t know precisely what Jack earns. It varies from week to week with overtime and now,
after seventeen years of marriage, she has given up asking. He pulls out his wage slip first and glares at the tax and deductions,
before turning his attention to money. He tips the wage packet upside down and catches the loose change, flicking the coins
back and forth in his palm before depositing them in his trouser pocket. He then turns his attention to the bundle of notes.
Green pounds, blue fivers and the odd red ten bob note, his lips moving with the calculation. He extracts a few notes for
his wallet and hands the rest to Ruth.

She, meanwhile, has a red Sovereign notebook where she keeps track of her housekeeping money. She scrimps and saves at every
opportunity, making sandwich lunches, sewing all her daughters’ dresses, knitting sweaters for Jack, buying scrag end for
broths and cutting back on coal. She resists the lure of Camay (“You’ll be a little lovelier each day, with wonderful pink
Camay!”). She buys rough yellow blocks of carbolic soap instead, saving the residual slimy remnants to cram into a plastic
swish basket for suds when she washes up. This thrifty approach informs everything she does. The Kleeneaze man would kill
to get his selection of dusters and cloths past the Singletons’ doorstep, but Ruth sticks resolutely to her own system of
using up old clothes as cleaning rags. White rags are used initially for pressing collars, until they wear into holes, at
which point they are used to clean windows until, in the end, they are boil-washed and used to stanch the nosebleeds that
Ruth has suffered from since she was a child. Colored rags serve as dusters and hand mops. Woolen sweaters are unraveled and
reknitted. Anything left over is given to the rag-and-bone man in exchange for a donkey stone to whiten the front step. It
is by thrift that Ruth has cut her weekly shopping bill to less than thirty shillings, allowing her quietly to put away a
pound a week into her account at the post office. Ruth is determined to move to a bigger house where there will be space for
all the gadgets, furniture and labor-saving electrical equipment she desires. Until that day arrives she must content herself
with window shopping. And what better occupation could there be on a sunny afternoon in July?

Sheltered for the most part from the sea breeze, the shopping center is a suntrap this afternoon. Ruth loosens the scarf round
her neck and unbuttons her coat. When she catches sight of a sale banner in the front window of Kennet Quality Drapers her
pace quickens, despite the heat. There’s a tea chest outside the shop that’s filled with neatly folded remnants. Ruth is sorting
through the various fabrics with an eye to making a summer dress when the shop owner, a slim, elderly man, approaches her.
“Can I help you, madam?”

“No, thank you, I’m just looking.” This well-worn sentence is delivered in a firm tone that usually scares off pushy shopkeepers.

But this is Blackpool and Mr. Kennet is not intimidated. He smiles thinly and says, “Ah, I see you’ve found the blue seersucker.
A quality Sea Island cotton, that. Long staple. Very hard-wearing.”

“Yes,” Ruth agrees.

“I have over a hundred different fabrics if you’d care to look inside.”

Ruth hesitates. She knows she is being soft-soaped, but she could do with making herself another dress. After some token hesitation
she picks up her shopping bag and enters the shop. The shelves behind the long wooden counter are a riot of different colors
and textures, from bolts of crimson velvet to magenta satin and black net. There isn’t a single price tag to be seen, making
Ruth immediately wary.

“I take it you’re looking for dress material?”

“Yes, but I’m only interested in your sale fabric.”

“Oh,” Mr. Kennet says with a wide smile, “I think you’ll find even our full-price materials are cheaper than elsewhere. Here
on holiday, are you?” Ruth nods reluctantly. “Well, I’m sure I can send you home with a bargain. What sort of fabric are you
looking for?”

“Cotton.”

“Let me show you what we have.” Within the space of a minute the air is lavish with bright cotton fluttering from various
bolts. The material is gathered and cast across the counter with casual artistry. Ruth is left breathless by the sight of
so many colors splashed across the polished wood. She lines the tips of her fingers against the edge of the counter, her eyes
filled with excitement.

“I have plain cotton, of course, but I’m sure you’d prefer this.” Mr. Kennet unrolls a bolt of white cotton decorated with
sprigs of primrose. Ruth knows at a glance that the style would be more suited to a woman half her age. She shakes her head.
The next fabric is a lavender design and again Ruth shakes her head. There is too much wastage with a repeated pattern and
it’s a job getting all the seams to match. More bolts of cotton are taken down from the shelves. Ruth is not proving to be
an easy customer. She examines each fabric closely, dismissing any printed cottons, aware that they will fade.

She is losing interest when Mr. Kennet unrolls a bolt of fabric covered in giant pink roses and verdant foliage. “This one
is called ‘Romance.’ It’s new in,” he says. “Very sophisticated, isn’t it? See,” he says, gathering the cloth into a ripple
of soft folds. “Look at the detail on the flowers. It’s top quality.” Mr. Kennet heaves an audible sigh of pleasure. “Just
look at the color. The design is woven in. Won’t fade.”

Ruth visualizes how the material would look made up into a simple round-necked dress with a gathered skirt. It would look
wonderful. Mr. Kennet sees her expression. He swiftly gathers up the other discarded cottons and replaces them on the shelves,
leaving only a lavish spread of the rose fabric across the counter.

Ruth is silent, drinking in the crimson and pink petals. At last she is roused to speak. “It’s British, is it?”

Mr. Kennet hesitates. “Let me see,” he replies, pretending to consult a book under the counter. He waits a moment before saying,
“Well, blow me! I could have sworn it was Lancashire cotton.”

“It’s not foreign, is it?”

“It would seem so,” replies Mr. Kennet, closing the petty cash book. “But, of course, the price reflects that. It’s substantially
cheaper, only nineteen and six a yard.”

“I always buy British.”

“I quite understand,” Mr. Kennet replies gravely. “But it’s difficult getting a modern design like this. It’s rare to find
anything with so much color and style.”

“Have you nothing by Standfast?”

“I’m afraid not. I sell very little Standfast fabric nowadays. It’s too expensive. My customers want something new at a competitive
price. British designs aren’t a patch on these German weaves.”

“German? No, thank you, I’ve changed my mind.”

Ruth turns and starts to leave the shop when Mr. Kennet says, “If you were to take a few yards, say a dress length, I could
do it cheap for you.”

Ruth pauses. The material is extravagant. It knocks the other fabrics into a cocked hat. Jack would be furious if he knew
she’d even been looking at imported cloth, let alone considered buying some. Every yard of foreign cloth that’s sold is one
more nail in the coffin of Lancashire’s cotton industry. And this material is even worse. It’s made in Germany. “I’m sorry,”
she says, picking up her shopping bag. She opens the door a fraction and a blast of salty air rushes into the shop, lifting
the edge of the fatal fabric that is strewn across the counter.

“Just a moment.” The shopkeeper measures out a few lengths of the rose material against the yard-long brass rule screwed into
the edge of the counter. Ruth watches as the fabric tumbles from the bolt. Within moments the counter is invisible under a
profusion of roses complete with buds and crisp leaves. Mr. Kennet cuts the cloth with a single stroke of the scissors. “Here
you are. There’s a good dress length there. Retails at a fiver and you’d pay a good bit more in some places. You can have
it for three guineas.”