The Palace of Strange Girls (21 page)

“So you’re selling out, are you, Jack? You’re going to take up Fosters’ offer. Manager of Prospect Mill and bugger the rest.”

Jack glares at Tom, resisting the urge to get up and walk out. “No. I’m not saying bugger the rest. I haven’t made my mind
up yet. I just sometimes wonder if management have a better chance of turning the industry round than the Union.”

“God help us! Going to be the first mill manager with a social conscience, are you?”

Jack ignores the crack. “I didn’t say that. The truth is that without new markets there’s no industry. And without modernization
there’s no future for the industry. It’s as simple as that. We need to get the owners to start investing in the search for
new fabrics. We can import cotton cheaper than we can make it. We need to look to the future. That’s what the Union should
be doing, instead of harping on about the past. Anybody can see that if the market takes off following this modernization
the workforce will be able to call the shots, return on their terms, redundancy payments and minimum wage included.”

“You can invent new fabrics till kingdom come. You won’t better Lancashire cotton.”

“Fosters are going to take a leaf out of ICI’s book. They’re going to start experimenting with new types of material.”

“How can you say that when it’s bloody nylon that’s caused half the problem in the first place? Fosters offering you a bonus
for every weaver you get shut of? I suppose they think workers will take the sack better from you.”

There’s an angry silence broken at last by Tom, who gets to his feet and says, “It’s getting crowded in here. I think I’ll
have a walk over to the Albion. It’s bound to be a bit quieter there. Are you comin’?”

“No, Tom. I’ll leave it. I should be getting back. Ruth’s waiting.”

Looking up, he sees the ill-disguised contempt on Tom’s face and struggles to defuse it. “Anybody would think she’s got me
on a string,” Jack says with a self-deprecating smile.

“A bloody ball and chain more like,” Tom snaps as he’s walking away.

The idea that he is tied hand and foot to Ruth offends Jack’s dignity. He reaches forward and snatches up his pint, leans
back in his seat and glares at Tom’s retreating back.

Jack finishes the rest of his pint in a single swallow and is reaching for his jacket when Connie appears. “You’re not going,
are you? I’ve just got a couple of drinks. I can’t drink both, can I? Come on, I owe you one.”

Jack looks doubtful. But it’s still early and won’t do any harm to stay a bit longer. At least that way there’s no chance
he’ll bump into Tom on the way back. Connie sees Jack hesitate and promptly sits down. “I’m surprised you’ve nothing better
to do. What happened to your date?”

“Stood me up, didn’t he?”

“Well, there’s plenty more fish.”

“I know and I think I just might have spotted one.” Connie relaxes back in her chair and gives him a calculated smile. “Anyway,
who was that you were talking to?”

“Oh, he’s a bloke I know from work.”

“He left in quite a temper, didn’t he? I’d better watch my step with you. I’m a bit on the timid side, you know.”

She gives Jack a look that makes a nonsense of her words and Jack laughs despite himself. “You’re all right, I won’t bite.
It’s Connie, isn’t it? How long have you been working at the Belvedere?”

Connie adopts an expression of world weariness and says, “Too long. I’ll stop here for the season, then I’ll be moving on
again. It’s like something out of the Cartoon Capers in that kitchen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone is terrified of the chef. You should see the waiters jump when he shouts. He puts the fear of God into the kitchen
porters when he doesn’t think they’re moving fast enough. You should hear him curse! They say he’s handy with his fists, but
I’ve never seen it. I’ve never had any trouble with him.”

Jack listens while Connie gives him a full account of life behind the scenes at the Belvedere. She is an entertaining talker
with a sharp sense of humor. Jack starts to relax. It’s not as if he’s doing anything wrong. He picks up their empty glasses
and buys another round. The evening passes quickly until they call last orders. “This’ll have to be your last,” Jack says.
“You should be getting back, Connie. You’ve got work in the morning.”

It has turned rowdy outside when they leave. Jack puts out a guiding hand, barely touching the small of her back, and directs
her across the road. They stop when Connie decides to demonstrate that she can still walk a straight line. The fat metal tramlines
shine silver in the moonlight as she places one foot in front of the other with painstaking precision. An oncoming tram disrupts
the demonstration and the couple retreat to the promenade where knots of stragglers make their beery way back to their hotels
and tipsy couples share fish and chips in the darkness of the shelters. The wind has an edge to it. Jack removes his jacket
and places it over Connie’s bare shoulders. She catches hold of his hand and hangs on to it as they walk. It is only reasonable
that he should see her safely back to the hotel. But Connie is in no hurry to return. She slows her walk until she comes to
a full stop, pulls Jack’s jacket closer and stares at the strings of fairy lights that trace the curve of the promenade down
to Central Pier. In the far distance they can see the flashing white lights of the Big Wheel that turn and turn in the pitch-black
sky, and below them they can hear the slow slap of the tide against the sea wall.

Connie is not allowed to use the hotel’s main entrance. Staff quarters are round the back and cloaked in darkness ever since
the floodlight gave up. Connie takes Jack’s hand and navigates her way around the collection of dustbins and broken chairs
that litter the backyard. It will, Jack reasons, only take a minute to see her safely to her room. Once there, Jack watches
as she trawls through her handbag. She hands him the key and he opens the door on to a modest room lit by a forty-watt bulb.
The room is bare of furniture save for a wardrobe and a single chest of drawers. Over the washbasin there’s a cracked mirror
screwed to the wall. Connie moves over the threshold and, turning, puts both arms round Jack’s neck. Sensing his reluctance,
she moves closer, running her hand under his jacket and over the small of his back.

Despite the surprise Jack is flattered, amused even. He takes her by the shoulders, intending to push her gently away. But
the luminescent softness of her arms and the scent that rises from her skin fills his senses. He breathes an audible sigh
when she kisses him. He bends and kisses her back with a fierce intensity that leaves them both breathless. He bends still
further, strokes away the ringlets of hair that cover her right shoulder, buries his face in the warm curve of her neck. She
responds immediately, her body tense, tight with excitement. Arching backwards, she draws him into the room, smiles as she
locks the door.

A radio is playing next door, an old Dean Martin song that Jack half recognizes from before the war. The effortless sway of
the melody curls around the room, lazy with the sound of saxophones and rich with an underpinning of muted drumming. The curtains
are open to the distant neon light of a backstreet peep show (“Makes Old Men Young!”). Jack is beyond thought. In the presence
of this woman he is lost to himself. It is so easy to slip the dress from her shoulders. The zip slides away down to the curve
of her back with a sound like a skate over thin ice. The music has changed. Bobby Darin is singing “Beyond the Sea” and Jack
is kissing her now as if his life depended upon it; as if he is twenty again and back in Crete; as if it is Eleni lying in
his arms in the green shelter of grass and, above their heads, a tracery of boughs hang heavy with the sharp perfume of orange
blossom.

Jack explores the body beneath him. She is all curves, moist to the touch of his fingers, open to the movement of his hand.
When she rolls on top of him he is conscious of the glorious weight of her breasts against his skin, the hard press of her
nipples. The sheets rumple beneath them as their hands move, pulling aside satin and cotton, careless of the temporary restraint
of buttons. The pillow lies discarded on the floor along with remnants of clothing and shoes. The narrow room is filled to
the brim, bursting with pleasure. Jack’s hands are broad and warm across her stomach. His fingers measure the length of her
inner thigh, elicit a shudder of pleasure that registers in her backbone so sharply that she pulls away. But in the next moment
she presses herself against him again, greedy for the rough tangle of hairs that cover his chest and belly, the urgent rasp
of his chin against her cheek, the rub of his fingers, the salt taste of his skin. He pushes her hand down the length of his
belly, urging her on until she takes him within the circle of her hand and, rolling over, guides him inside her. For a moment
he appears paralyzed with the rush of sensation, afraid that he will come too soon. And then he is moving. Connie arching
towards him when he enters her, her mouth wide with the shock of pleasure. When he moves against her she tilts, her legs wrapped
smoothly round his hips. He rises above her, his hands covering her breasts. Connie draws him in closer and closer still until,
in the final union, they occupy a single space, a single exultant moment. The sound rises from the bed and echoes joyfully
around the walls before dissolving into the surrounding darkness. “Eleni,” he whispers into the perfumed mass of her hair.

“Connie,” she says. “I’m Connie.”

Brittle-stars look like starfish. They have five thin arms which readily break off if they are grabbed by a predator. The
miracle is that the brittle-star doesn’t die when it is badly injured—it forms a scar and will grow another arm to replace
the one it has lost. So the brittle-star isn’t brittle at all! Score 30 points for a miraculous recovery.

Ruth is encouraged to accompany her daughter into the operating theater. The surgeon explains that there are certain procedures
(the insertion of a tube, nothing more) that have to be undertaken while her daughter is still awake. Prior to anesthesia,
that is. It is likely the child will be a little uncomfortable. The presence of her mother in these circumstances will reassure
the child. The prospect provokes panic in Ruth. Providing reassurance to the child is a task best left to others. Ruth is
keenly aware that the surgeon hasn’t stopped for a moment to consider how distressing it might be for her to witness her daughter
on an operating table. The surgeon listens carefully as Ruth outlines the difficulties that the bus timetable imposes, the
overwhelming demands of family and, finally, the imminence of an unexpected but vital dental appointment. The subject is dropped.
The surgeon is a man of few words. He steeples his fingers when he speaks of heart surgery techniques perfected on the battlefield.
Three or four hours at most. A fifty/fifty chance of success. They must hope for the best.

It is dark when the nurse wakes Beth. The child smiles, thinking that she is at home in the attic bedroom, believing that
the figure leaning over her is Helen, come to say “night-night.” But it’s not Helen. It is a nurse she hasn’t seen before.

A man lifts Beth on to a steel trolley and buckles the leather restraining straps over her chest and knees with practiced
ease. “Don’t struggle,” he says. “We’re going to take you on a ride. It’ll be fun!”

Beth turns her head and watches as the nurse riffles through the bedside locker belonging to the boy in the next bed. “There’s
no need to be afraid. Nobody is going to hurt you,” the nurse says. “Have you got a book?”

“Yes,” replies Beth. “I’ve got
Sleeping Beauty.
” She tries to point to her locker but the leather straps are too tight to allow her to move her arms.

The nurse darts over to the ward toy box and grabs the nearest book:
The Big Book of Adventure Stories.
“This will have to do,” she says.

Beth is now fully awake and wide-eyed with anxiety.

“You’re not afraid, are you? You’re a brave girl.”

“I don’t want the straps. I can’t breathe.”

“They’re there to keep you safe. If you keep still and quiet I’ll take them off the minute we get to theater,” the nurse says.

They enter the lift. The steel doors close and the nurse and porter wait in silence while Beth struggles to stay quiet, swallowing
back her fear, gasping for her next breath. The lift goes down, the steel doors open.

“Now,” the man says, “we’re going through the tunnel. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

The nurse agrees enthusiastically.

“Heart, is it?” the man asks in an undertone. Beth watches as the nurse nods her head and puts her finger over her lips. “Oh,
well, you’ll fall asleep and it’ll all be over in a jiffy. You won’t feel a thing. Do you want to go fast? My trolley is the
fastest in the whole hospital. I can make it race. Hang on!”

There is a blast of cold night air and then they’re in a tunnel. There are lights in metal cages set into the ceiling. Beth
is forced to close her eyes against the glare. But the lights still register behind her eyelids, flashing by faster and faster.
At the end of the tunnel they emerge into a rat-run of dark corridors swinging this way and that until they reach another
set of double doors. Once through the doors, Beth is immediately blinded by light and surrounded by figures swathed in green.
If these are people they are devoid of any recognizable features. They have no hair or mouths or noses, only eyes—unfamiliar
eyes that peer out from the narrow slit between green hat and white mask. Eyes that frown and wrinkle while disembodied hands
strip away her nightie and retighten the straps.

Above her, huge white lights angle and turn. Beth can feel their heat across her skin. Silent eyes that watch, eyes that flick
towards her and then away. Other figures flit in and out of sight in a blur of movement. Beth clenches her teeth against the
rattle of instrument trolleys and the clash of metal bowls. Her ears are assaulted by a cacophony of strange, unfamiliar noises:
the thud of black rubber tubes, the urgent hiss of taps, the tapping of dials, the tearing of packages, gas tanks shaped like
bombs on wheels that squeak, squeak, squeak. The background murmuring stills to a whisper. Everything stops, as if awaiting
a signal.