by Daisy White
Catherine has a scrapbook of pictures of Johnnie’s clients, which she cuts out from society magazines, and she constantly reminds us of the “standards” we are expected to uphold. To be fair, Johnnie did say the staff haven’t always been reliable, so I make an extra effort to work hard, and do everything I’m asked. I know how lucky we are. Mum always said you made your own luck, but she clearly wasn’t any good at it. When I once asked her if she was happy with George, knowing she couldn’t possibly be, she just gave me this wistful little look, and said she was lucky to have a man.
I sweep harder, paying attention to the fiddly corners under the shelves and around the pink-and-white reception desk. If it wasn’t for Johnnie, we might be stuck sponging off my poor cousin, who has already done quite enough for us, so I mean to pay him back in hard work. I’m never going to end up like Mum. It’s my dearest wish, and I repeat it every day. Have done since I was about ten.
“Can you make up some more neutraliser, Ruby?” Eve calls across, cutting into my thoughts. She’s about forty, a beady-eyed professional the size of a bus. Not fat, but muscular. No clients ever dare argue with her, and I bet her husband doesn’t either.
I wave to let her know I’ve heard, stow the brush neatly into the cupboard next to the mop and bucket, and start measuring out the conditioning cream. “Twenty-volume peroxide,” I mutter, peering at bottles and tubes on the shelf unit near the back door. You mix it with water, and the chemicals work their magic on a client’s hair. It’s fiddly, and takes the skin off your fingertips if you aren’t careful. Johnnie buys these huge plastic containers of hundred-volume peroxide, and gets us to dilute it down with distilled water. It stinks, making the back of my throat burn and my eyes water.
I beam at Eve, who is scowling at me, and trot over to her with the plastic dish. She glances briefly at my red thumb. “Did you get burnt?” I nod and she smiles grimly. “Only way to learn. Isn’t it, Joyce?”
Eve’s ageing client agrees in a gravelly drawl. “Green soap, we used in my day!” she adds, fiddling with her handbag. She insists on clutching that bag against her huge bosom even though Eve has to lean over her to get to her sparse fringe.
“Mrs Carpenter used to be a hairdresser too,” Eve informs me. “Go and wash the towels now, Ruby. Make yourself useful!”
We have to hand-wash the towels every day, and hang them out to dry on the line in the tiny courtyard at the back of the shop. I gather the wet washing into a basket and go outside, banging the door behind me. It’s a peaceful job and I take my time over it, half thinking about tonight and half watching a couple of noisy seagulls perched on the rooftops next door. You get a great view across the lower half of town from here, and you can get out into the street through the door in the rear wall. It’s our quick route down to Brenda’s Café for chicken and chips with lashings of salt and vinegar.
The sun misses the little courtyard totally, concentrating its rays on a little halo of dust on the doorstep, so I have no idea how the towels dry. I can only imagine how cold I’ll be hanging out wet towels next winter. But, enclosed in the cobbled square, with the bustle and dust of the town behind me and the seemingly endless blue sky above, I almost feel happy again.
When I turn to step back inside, something makes me pause — a small sound that doesn’t belong to the street bustle outside, or to the peaceful skies above. The back of my neck prickles uncomfortably, and I stop dead. I swing round, half expecting to see someone standing behind me.
The courtyard is still empty, but the noise comes again. Someone is rattling the handle on the outside door. I freeze like a hunted animal. The courtyard goes from cosy to stifling. I look up at the neighbouring balconies, the high brick and stone buildings opposite, and the distant rows of new housing between the church and the grocer’s. It’s not like I’m alone in a side street with an assailant. There are loads of people around. I only have to scream.
The bolt on the inside of the door shakes a little, and the metal chinks against the brick wall, as though the person outside is giving it an impatient push.
“Hello? Is someone there?” My heart hammers frantically against my ribs, and I rub my sweaty palms on my pinny and tug my pink-and-grey uniform shirt down to my wrists. I take a deep breath. For a second I consider unlocking the door and confronting whoever is on the other side.
As I stand there dithering, a woman shouts from next door and I swing round, squinting up into the sun. One of my neighbours is hanging out her own washing on her second floor balcony.
“Oi, you! Get away from ’ere! I can see you spyin’ on me. Get away, you peeping Tom!” The seagulls rise skyward, squawking. “Harooooold! I need you out here, love, some sicko spying on me from behind the wall.”
I hear footsteps running in the road outside. Something comes over the wall, and lands with a chink at my feet. It rolls on the cobblestones, before coming to rest next to my shoe. What on earth?
It looks like a ring or a badge. I’m bewildered. Is it meant for me? How could anyone know I was hanging out the washing? One glance to my left shows me how. Just as I can look towards the sea, and see the streets spread out before me, anyone further along the road and higher up the hill can watch our courtyard. Most of the shabby balconies stretching into the distance have a line of clothes flapping in the breeze, a few plants or a bird cage, but the one directly to my left is dirty and deserted. Could he have been there, watching the salon? Or has he been across the road? Perhaps he was further up the hill, sitting casually on the bench by the telephone box.
The woman who shouted from next door is now chuntering away someone inside. I strain and just catch the words “peeping Tom.” She thinks he was spying on her. “Dark hair and a suit. Tall bloke. Looked really smart but you get all sorts round ’ere now, don’t you?”
Footsteps thump and a door bangs. Perhaps Harold has gone to have a look around.
Running my tongue over dry lips, I reach down and pick up the little bit of metal. It is indeed a ring. I roll it around my palm. The dull brass with a criss-crossed pattern and the emblem of a lion’s head is a man’s signet ring, chunky and dirty. Embedded in the engraving, among the other grime, I can see unmistakable dried bloodstains. I want to hurl it back out onto the street. Instead, I stagger towards the wall and vomit into a patch of weeds, retching painfully, clutching my stomach. My throat burns and my eyes stream. It can’t be. It is.
George was wearing this ring that night, staggering home through the alley. And he was still wearing it when he lay drowning in his own blood as his assailant ran off into the night.
Chapter Four
I was sure he was dead, but men like that are survivors. There was always that chance nagging at my mind. The telephone call from Aunt Jackie was a welcome relief.
It can’t be him. The dead do not return, or if they do, they don’t get spotted by an elderly washerwoman with operatic lungs. My face is burning hot, and I realise I’m holding my breath, arms wrapped around my chest. If I don’t move it didn’t happen. I can smell rotten fruit, the heat of the day is suddenly blinding, and the springtime wash of blue that was so welcome before is too vivid, too strong.
“Ruby? What are you doing out there?” Eve shouts from the salon.
For a moment I consider running away. Again. Then common sense kicks in. So someone is watching me. So what? If it was the police, they would have arrested me by now. This thought calms me a little. I’ve been expecting them to turn up ever since we ran away. Every time I see a policeman on a bike round here, I get an icy, fearful feeling deep in my stomach.
The man watching on the beach must have followed me, and from further away than the seafront in Brighton. But if this watcher-man means to harm me, I’ll get him first. This last thought shocks me a little, but I’m pleased that I’m not that cowering little girl shrinking away from someone’s fist anymore. You make your own luck, don’t you?
I pause for a moment in that bright patch of sunlight, taking a long slow breath. Sanity retu
rns in a welcome rush of energy, so I shove the ring deep into my pinny pocket, and get back to my work.
A mirror in the back room is covered in dust but I can still see my reflection in it. I shake out my hair and yank it into a low pleat. Then I turn on the tap at the rickety sink, and splash some water onto my face, finishing with a good scrub round with a towel. I look a bit pale, but sane enough.
Mary looks hard at me as we pass each other in the corridor. I thought I looked pretty normal, but she knows me too well.
“What’s wrong, Rubes?”
For a second I consider keeping it from her, but her concern makes me feel a bit teary. “I’ll tell you later, after work, but you know that man I thought was watching me swim on our first night? I think he was here just now, outside the courtyard. Maybe trying to get in, maybe just trying to scare me. He threw this in for me to find.” The dull brass ring teeters on my shaky palm.
Mary nearly drops her pile of fresh towels, “Is he . . . is he here?” She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Oh my God, Rubes, you don’t think it’s Derek, do you? Did you get a closer look this time?” Her face loses colour and she bites her lips so hard I see a drop of blood against the whiteness of her skin. The hand not clenched over the towels fumbles protectively over her stomach.
“Oh Mary, I’m sorry I mentioned it. Look, if I’m sure about one thing, it wasn’t Derek. I didn’t see him today, because he was the other side of the wall, out in the road, and the woman next door just shouted and scared him off. The man watching me on the beach was taller and thinner, and why on earth would Derek have my stepdad’s signet ring? My stepdad was wearing it the night he . . . the night we left. There is no way I could miss that. Please, sit down on the stairs a minute and I’ll take your towels in.” I’m horrified that I could have been so selfishly wrapped up in my own thoughts. I should have said first that there was no way it could have been Mary’s husband.
“The ring belongs to George? How did it get here?” My best friend sits heavily onto the wooden stair, hunching over her towel pile, her skinny legs drawn up. Her eyes are big and bright, and her pale hair is pinned neatly back from her bony face. She looks younger than ever. She sniffs a bit, and takes a bit of tissue from her pinny pocket to dab her long nose. I wait.
“Ruby, is someone after you? You know, someone from home, who maybe knows what happened to . . .”
She doesn’t finish, and I keep my own eyes fixed on her face. My heart flutters and I hardly dare breathe until she continues.
“Rubes, you can tell me anything. You know that. But I respect what you don’t tell me too. I can guess what happened the night we left, and you got out of an impossible situation.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “Me too. But if there is chance that anyone is following you, someone from Croydon, then you must tell me. It affects me too, and we can deal with it. We’ve got friends here now.”
I open my mouth to answer, but Johnnie sweeps into the corridor and comes to an abrupt halt as he sees Mary crouched on the stairs.
“Mary? Are you not well? Is it the baby?” His usual flamboyant drawl is replaced with concern, and I think again how lucky we are to have found this job.
“I just felt a bit faint for a minute. Sorry, Johnnie, I really am.”
“I’ll do Mary’s work for a bit. Maybe she can sit out the front in the sun for a bit?” I put in quickly.
Johnnie looks doubtful, but nods. “Now stop chattering, you two. I have that bridal party due in five minutes. Mary, take as long as you need, and Ruby, you can start helping with the bridesmaids. But get Eve to tell you what to do.” He flashes me a look. “Then Mary can get on the reception desk for the rest of the afternoon.”
Our boss retrieves a box of fresh flowers before vanishing back into the salon. The outside door bangs and we hear a stream of excited chatter. Clearly the bridal party has arrived early.
Alone, I hug Mary quickly, almost guiltily, grab her towels and run after our employer. He is now gushing over the bride, a dark-haired glamorous model I vaguely recognise from magazine covers.
“Can I take your coats?” I beam at the rest of the entourage, who smile politely and hand over light summer coats and a couple of pastel cardigans. When I hang them up I catch a glimpse of the designer labels — Biba of course, but also Pierre Cardin, Courrèges and a pink and purple silk Pucci creation. I’m fascinated by them, and by the whole party.
The bride is beautiful, of course, and after two hours of work her long dark hair is dressed with white roses, and a few clusters of tiny pearls, creating an elegant arty look. The other girls all have dark nail polish and pale skin with crowns of tiny purple buds around their glossy hair.
Eve is bustling around, snapping at me to fetch coffee and water for the customers. I try to pass her more flowers for the last bridesmaid but she pushes my hands away.
“Thank you, Ruby, I think we’re all done here!” Catherine ruffles the dark mane to give a few more tousled curls before spraying a careful halo around her client.
One of the bridesmaids asks me kindly, “Are you new?”
“Is it that obvious?” I smile back, making my two elder colleagues glare.
The girl giggles. “Only to me, I expect. I’m a stylist so I’m always doing the hair and makeup on photoshoots for Anna.” She gestures towards the bride, who is now sipping a glass of champagne. Johnnie clearly doesn’t hold back for his best customers. “Even though really I should be just doing the clothes now she’s all famous!”
Anna turns round to face me. Her doe eyes look enormous in her sharp-boned face. “You know, you have a great look for modelling too. Johnnie darling, you should get your new girl’s hair cut. She has fabulous cheekbones.”
Johnnie looks smug. Eve and Catherine clear up and stalk away in silence. They look rather cross with me, and when the reception phone rings I hurry to answer it. By the time I’ve booked in another client for next week, and then two more for tomorrow, the bride and her girlfriends have clattered out onto the street.
“Isn’t she going to wear a wedding dress? What about makeup?” I wonder out loud to Johnnie.
“They’re getting changed and having all that done at the town hall. I would have offered them space here, but of course there simply isn’t room. Maybe I need bigger premises.”
The wedding party soon disappears towards the town hall for the ceremony. Johnnie gushes about the reception.
“So glamorous, darlings. They’re having a picnic at Glebe Hall — champagne, live music, party in the woods — so different from your usual stale sandwich and half-glass of flat fizz, and so much more fun!”
“I take it from the over-excitement that you’ve been invited?” Catherine sets cold cream on another client’s grey head. She can talk out of the corner of her mouth, with her teeth clenched on a long-handled pink comb that pokes out the other side. I’ve tried to do this, but even putting pins in my mouth nearly choked me.
Johnnie beams. “Not properly, but I’ve been asked to ‘look in.’ There are some very influential people going, not to mention a rather hunky photographer I’ve had my eye on for a while. I’ll just pop up there for an hour, because I have a few other things to do this afternoon. You don’t mind closing up do you, Eve?” Eve nods and smiles. “Mary, do you want to nip out for another five minutes? Get a bit more sunshine, before the last few clients? I’m going to head off now. See you all later.”
While Mary and Johnnie are out I tidy up the back room, wash up the tea mugs and stack the empty boxes from an earlier delivery neatly in one corner. Then it’s time to take another turn on the reception desk. I can see Mary sipping a cup of tea at one of the little wrought-iron tables and chairs Johnnie has artistically arranged between the shop and the pavement. Sometimes he suggests clients sit outside in the sun to help their hair ‘set.’ I’m never sure if this works or if he is simply trying to manage the busy parts of the day.
It’s lovely to see Mary happy. I jam my fingers down hard on the signet ring in
my pinny pocket, and get on with my work. But every time the door opens to admit a new client, or when Catherine drops a tin dish with a clatter, my heart jumps. I really can’t terrify my best friend any more, though, so I take deep breaths and down a glass of water.
“Ruby, can you give the window a quick polish inside while we’re not too busy? I’m sure I can see finger-marks.”
Eve hands me the cloths and a little basin of water, and I set to work, stretching to reach the top, and leaning right down to get the bit near the gold coving.
Everything’s fine, Mary’s fine, the dusty street outside is bustling with life, and I’m safe in the salon — then I see him again.
He catches my eye the second time I look across the road. He’s leaning casually against the wall at the entrance to an alley with his hands in his pockets. Just far enough away so I can’t see his face clearly. Just like any other office worker taking a late lunch break, with a paper tucked under one arm. But he’s near enough to watch me. I clutch the cloth in one shaky hand and pause for a moment. Then I force myself to stare back this time. I squint into the sun, trying frantically to see if I can recognise anything familiar. I get nothing. A dark suit and dark hair. Tall. Not very old, but not a gangly teenager either. Taller than George, if I remember rightly, but the mop of dark hair is the same. Do ghosts come back younger than when they died? If I went outside and shouted, would he hear me?
Am I going mad?
A couple of men staggering down the alley with boxes bump against him and he drops the paper. He picks it up, waves away their apologies and leans back against the wall. He’s not a ghost, at least.
For a couple of minutes the dark-haired watcher doesn’t move, or shift his gaze. I move a little to the right so the sun is no longer directly in my eyes. Now I can look back properly at him, while I go on pretending to rub my cloth at a bit of stubborn dirt.
Some children run down the road, ignoring their mother yelling at them. They turn down the alley, and they too bump and scatter around the watcher. Once again he doesn’t move. He keeps staring at me. Is it a contest? I’m going to prove I’m not scared of him, whoever or whatever he is.
