The Palace of Strange Girls (26 page)

“Cheer up, man! You look as if you lost a shilling and found sixpence.”

“I wish it were that simple. Look, Dougie, why don’t we have a couple of beers at the Albion tonight? Eight o’clock suit you?”

“What’s the matter? Come on, Jack. Spit it out. You’ve had a face like a wet Monday all holiday.”

“It’s nothing. We’ll have a chat tonight.”

Jack is spared any further explanation by the arrival of Doug. “What do you want?” Doug asks his father.

“Usual,” Dougie replies.

“Where’s your money?”

Dougie checks his pockets. “I’m all out. I don’t know why. I only had a couple in Yates’s.”

Doug knows that Jack has been offered the manager’s job at Prospect—his father let it slip one night when he was drunk. Doug
wasn’t surprised by the news. It’s only what he has come to expect from Jack Singleton. Doug has heard all the stories about
Jack’s womanizing when he was in the band and all the tricks he used to get up to when he was still a tackler. He’s even heard
how Jack was mentioned in dispatches during the retreat from Crete. If there were any justice in the world he’d have had Jack
for a father instead of Dougie. Maybe then his mother wouldn’t have walked out. “Can I get you summat, Mr. Singleton? I may
as well get them all together. No point in us both queuing.”

“It’s OK, Doug. I’m waiting for our Helen. She should be here in a minute or two. She’s just nipped into one of the shops.
Oh, there she is now.” Jack raises his hand and waves.

Doug follows his gaze down towards the beach. Making her way up the street with the sea at her back is a figure dressed in
the height of fashion from her skimpy top to her fully flared skirt that swishes round her knees as she walks and kicks out
to reveal a sparkling white net underskirt. Her blonde hair gleams against the blue of the sea and her face shines with happiness.
Jack and Doug are struck dumb by the transformation. It is left to Dougie to pipe up: “By the left, she’s changed, hasn’t
she? I wouldn’t have known her.” Doug stares, open-mouthed. No wonder she didn’t turn up in Yates’s last night. She must have
had at least half a dozen better offers. Dougie sneaks a look at Jack. If anything, he looks even more shocked.

When Helen reaches them she smiles at Dougie and says, “Hiya, Dad. Hello, Mr. Fairbrother.” She turns to Doug and he stares
back at her like a complete fool.

The chip shop is full. Doug and Helen are forced to queue out on the street and, since they are still within hearing distance
of their fathers, Doug keeps his mouth shut. He’s had more than a taste of his father’s mockery in the past and isn’t keen
for another dose. The queue shuffles forward over the threshold of the shop. Once safely inside Doug clears his throat and
says, “Did you get to Yates’s last night?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t. I expect Connie did, though.”

“Did she have a good night?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her today.”

“You planning to go anywhere tonight?”

Helen is at a loss to know what to say. She can’t face the embarrassment of admitting that she’s not allowed out at night,
but there again she can’t think of where she could claim to be going. She eventually settles for a bland “Oh, I don’t know.”
As she turns away she feels the net underskirt rustle and crush against Doug’s thigh and is pleased by the sensation.

“I hear you’ve a Saturday job,” Doug says, anxious to keep her talking.

“Yes. I work at Blanche’s on Scotland Road.” Relieved to be on less dangerous ground, Helen rushes on. “I should be working
now but I decided to come on holiday instead. Blanche has offered me full time.”

“Will you take it? I heard your dad telling Dougie that you were going to stay on at school.”

Helen shrugs her shoulders and tries to look as if she doesn’t care. She finds Doug’s habit of referring to his father by
his first name alternately amusing and unsettling. Doug is standing with his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets. He is so
cool and so good-looking. It feels dangerous just standing next to him. When he moves his leather jacket wrinkles and shines,
and the heavy collar rubs against his sideburns.

“Have you ever been to the Winter Gardens?” Doug asks.

“Lots of times.” Helen is still easing into the part of an experienced social butterfly. And it is true in a manner of speaking.
Helen has seen three Christmas pantomime matinées at the Winter Gardens. On each occasion she was accompanied by the full
church Sunday School.

“Lonnie Donegan is on tonight. I’ve got a couple of tickets. Do you fancy going?”

They have reached the head of the queue and Helen feigns deafness as she puts in her order for fish and chips with salt and
vinegar. She pays at the counter and waits for the change. Her mind is in overdrive trying to work out a way she can go out
with Doug without her parents finding out. But it’s impossible. There isn’t any way that she can manage it. “I can’t,” she
says, swallowing hard and looking away.

“Already got a date, have you?”

“Yes. No.” Helen is anxious not to lose Doug’s interest. She is at a loss to know how to turn down the date without either
admitting she isn’t allowed out or putting him off completely. “Well, I think I might have. I don’t know,” she concludes.

Doug glares at her and says, “Well, let me know if you ever make your mind up. I won’t be holding my breath.” And with that
he turns away and studies the view out of the steamed-up windows.

This little jellyfish looks exactly like a gooseberry except that its body is transparent. It blends into its surroundings
and trails two long tentacles through the water to pick up any passing prey. When it moves it shimmers and takes on all the
colors of the rainbow. Score 20 points for an invisible gooseberry.

I
t’s Connie’s turn to serve afternoon tea in the Residents’ Lounge. She rearranges her hair and admires her reflection in the
stainless-steel tea urn while she waits for the water to boil. Nobody has ever made love to her like Jack Singleton. Not even
Father O’Connell. She’d had to sink three gins and orange last night before she’d had the guts to walk up to Jack when the
bloke he was talking to left. After that it had been easy. He didn’t use anything but it doesn’t matter. She had sex with
her geography teacher at school loads of times and she never got pregnant by him. It’s only older women who get pregnant,
not teenagers like her. Jack is a proper man, not like that idiot Alan Clegg, or Andy who’s been dogging her every step this
afternoon. In the end she’d stopped in her tracks, turned round and said, “Look, Andy, I really like you but it’s no good.
I’ve already got a bloke and it’s serious.” And she means what she says. It is serious. Connie is convinced that Jack must
care for her. How could he not love her after last night? True, he’d got her name mixed up with someone else’s, but anyone
could see that Connie and Jack were made for each other.

Connie refused to go out with Andy and the lads after lunch and spent the early afternoon readying herself for her next meeting
with Jack. He was a bit short with her at breakfast but all that is forgotten in her preparations for the afternoon. She has
dressed carefully, releasing her hair from its usual rubber band, and slipped her feet into her best stilettos, the ones that
will cripple her before the day is out. There’s barely been a break in the rain all day and, as a result, Connie is hoping
and praying that Jack will turn up for afternoon tea. There are butterflies in her stomach when she walks into the Residents’
Lounge but she is immediately disappointed. There’s no sign of Jack. Over in the far corner the couple from room sixty-nine,
the salesman and his “wife,” are already seated. They’re regulars for the afternoon tea. They throw it down and retire to
their room for the rest of the afternoon. The chambermaid is always moaning that she has to change their sheets every day.
There’s the old couple from room five. They have to have a room on the ground floor because of her wheelchair. They’re regulars
too. Mr. Stansfield wheels his wife along the prom every day after lunch to allow her to take advantage of the health-giving
properties of ozone. They’re both ready for a cup of tea come 3:30 p.m. Connie catches sight of Mrs. Clegg and Jack’s wife.
Her spirits rise; if Ma Singleton is here it’s likely that Jack will appear. Connie won’t be able to speak to him, not with
his wife there, but at least she’ll be able to see him. Connie hurries forward with her tray.

The hotel provides a pot of tea and slices of Victoria sandwich for guests every afternoon. Ruth used to bake this cake on
a weekly basis, specifically to annoy Jack’s mother, so she knows how it should taste. She used the finest flour from Canadian
wheat—not the sweepings-up her mother-in-law used to call flour. Fresh-laid eggs, not dried. And homemade jam with real fruit,
not the commercial stuff that’s all sugar and cochineal. Jack’s mother was horrified by Ruth’s culinary extravagances. As
likely as not she’d say, “There are perfectly good results from plain ingredients at half the price, you know, Ruth.” Or,
“You’ll not mind if I don’t finish the crust, it’s all a bit too rich for me.” There is, of course, no “crust” on Ruth’s Victoria
sandwich—the ingredients have been beaten over a bowl of hot water, whisked to within an inch of their life. As Ruth is fond
of telling Jack, “Just because you were brought up on shop-bought doesn’t mean you have to continue missing out.”

Jack, for his part, has been known to protest that his mother’s cooking wasn’t “shop-bought.” In fact, Jack’s mother had her
own bakery on Gas Street. It was so successful that she supplied four Dainty Shops as well, but Ruth dismisses this with a
wave of her hand.

Ruth had walked into the Residents’ Lounge hoping for an hour’s peace and quiet, but this isn’t to be. Mrs. Clegg clocked
her the minute she walked in and now the two of them are settled in the corner. If Ruth could have ignored the frantic waving
she would have done, but Mrs. Clegg isn’t easily ignored. When Connie comes over Mrs. Clegg orders a pot of tea for two.

Still hopeful, Connie turns to Ruth and says, “And what can I get for you? Will anyone else be joining you?”

Florrie interrupts: “A pot of tea for two will do us nicely. And we’ll have some of your cake as well.”

Connie and Ruth look equally depressed.

Florrie starts immediately Connie has moved on to the next table: “Where’s your eldest girl, Ruth?”

“She’s gone to the pictures for the afternoon.”

“Pictures! They’re a blessing on a day like this, aren’t they? We were going to take the lads up the Tower—on a good day you
can see for miles and miles. You’d be hard pushed to see across the street today so Fred has taken them to the Tower Circus.
Your youngest would like it. How is she today?”

“Better, thank you. She’s having her nap at the moment.”

“I don’t know how you manage it. The twins are coming up to four and they’d scream blue murder if I ever tried putting them
to bed in the afternoon. It’s bad enough getting them settled at night. Still, it’s easier here. I think all that sea air
wears them out.”

Connie has returned with their order and conversation pauses while Ruth clears a space for the tray.

Florrie looks in the teapot, stirs the contents for a minute and looks again. “We’ll have to leave it a bit,” she says.

Ruth picks up a side plate and reaches for a piece of sponge.

“Your eldest is going to be a real beauty, isn’t she? She’s certainly caught our Alan’s eye. Will you be having any more?”

Mention of Alan infuriates Ruth. She’s seen him leering at Helen more than once.

Florrie, suddenly aware of the silence, asks again, “So, will you be having any more?”

“No.”

“You’re not tempted to try for a boy?”

“No. I much prefer girls. And anyway, I was told I wouldn’t be able to have any more after Elizabeth was born.”

“Oh, you’re so lucky.” Florrie’s chin wobbles. “What a blessing. Oh, I envy you. My Fred says he’s fed up to the back teeth
of ‘getting off at the roundabout instead of going into More-cambe,’ if you take my meaning.”

Ruth is embarrassed by Florrie’s frankness and searches for something different to talk about. Contraception doesn’t figure
in Elizabeth Craig’s list of topics suitable for polite conversation over afternoon tea. “Are you enjoying your holiday?”
she inquires.

“We’re having a grand time. I’m only sorry that tomorrow will be our last day. We’ll be off on Saturday. We’ve decided we’re
going to splash out and go to the Tower Ballroom tomorrow night. You’re welcome to come with us, if you like.”

“It’s kind of you to ask but we’ll be busy all day. We’re off to St. Anne’s tomorrow.”

“Very nice. They’re a bit posh over there, aren’t they? What do you plan to do when you get there? There isn’t much of a pier,
is there? Will you be going by taxi?”

“No, we’ll get the tram. We’re just seeing friends. I’ve known Cora for years and Jack was at school with her husband.”

“Are your girls looking forward to it?”

“They won’t be coming with us. Helen will be staying here and looking after Elizabeth. We’ll only be away a couple of hours.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll keep my eye on your lasses.”

“There’s no need. Helen will stay in her room while Elizabeth is having her afternoon nap and we’ll be back before four.”

“You’ll feel better knowing they’re being looked after. And it means you can stay as late as you like, can’t you? I know how
time flies when you’re chatting.”

Ruth can’t refuse this generous offer without appearing rude. She struggles with the effort of sounding grateful. “Thank you.
That’s very kind of you, Florrie.”

Florrie smiles and says, “Make sure you and Jack enjoy yourselves without the girls. Me and Fred take every opportunity there
is to get some time alone. It was our anniversary yesterday.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years.” Florrie sees the look on Ruth’s face and adds, “I married Fred when my first husband, Alan’s father, was killed
in Italy. How long have you and Jack been married?”