The Palace of Strange Girls

by Sallie Day

  “Sh-h-h. He’ll hear you!”

  But it is too late, he’s heading straight towards them. He must have heard. “Hi! I’m Adrian. Would either of you ladies like to contribute?” He pushes the wooden collection box on to the table between them.

  “Depends what you’re after,” replies Connie at her most coy. “What are you collecting for anyway?”

  “CND. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. You know, get rid of the bomb.”

  “You’ve lost me, dreamboat. What flippin’ bomb?”

  “The H bomb. Haven’t you heard? These bombs are enough to blow up the whole world and it could happen at any time.”

  Connie shrugs and looks bored. Adrian turns his attention to Helen and struggles to prevent his smile from deteriorating into a leer.

  Helen rummages for her purse and counts out two sixpences. “Is that enough?”

  “Another sixpence and you can have a badge.” He holds up a black badge with white lines representing a bomb.

  Helen fishes in her purse a second time and finds a thrupenny bit and three pennies.

  “Didn’t I see you at Aldermaston last Easter?” Adrian asks.

  “Where?”

  “The protest march to the Atomic Weapons Research in Berkshire.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, well, there’ll be another march next Easter. I think we made a real difference. People have started to take notice. Half of them think we’re raging Communists—in league with Khrushchev. But that’s what middle England usually calls anyone who’s interested in people’s rights. There was one old boy, a real dyed-in-the-wool right-winger, carrying a banner that said ‘Khrushchev’s Bunion Derby.’ He insisted on walking at the head of the march. You’d have laughed if you’d seen it.”

  “Is that where you got your scarf? On the march?”

  Adrian laughs and says, “No. It’s a college scarf. I’m in my second year at Manchester University.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Politics, though I wonder whether there’s any point doing a degree.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if we don’t get rid of these nuclear weapons then there might not even be a tomorrow. Having a degree won’t stop me being vaporized if someone drops the bomb, will it? I mean I might not even get the chance to find out your name.”

  Helen can feel her heart racing. She takes a deep breath and says, “I’m Helen and this is Connie.”

  But Connie has already left and is perched on a stool at the pine bar chatting to Rico, who is making a big show of working the espresso machine.

  “Looks as if your friend is busy elsewhere. Mind if I sit down?”

  Helen whisks her cardigan off the spare seat and says, “No, I mean yes. I mean sit there if you like.”

  Adrian turns the pine seat round and sits with one long leg either side, folding his arms across the top of the chair back. He tosses his head and his fringe falls forward. This well-practiced silent seduction seems to work. Helen blushes and traces a circular route round a knot in the wooden table top. Adrian leans further forward, rests his chin on his hands, smiles and says in a slow, low voice, “So, put me out of my misery. What do I have to do to bump into you again?”

  “What? Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

  Adrian must raise his voice in order to be heard over the sound of the jukebox and the chrome Gaggia coffee machine. “I said, are you from Blackpool, or just visiting?”

  “Oh. I’m just here on holiday. I live in Blackburn.”

  “So not too far away. I’m from Manchester. We’ve got a CND student branch meeting at the university a week this Saturday. Do you fancy going?” Helen hesitates. “I mean, it’s really important,” Adrian continues, anxious to dispel any suspicion that his intentions are anything less than honorable.

  “But I’m not a student.”

  “Aren’t you?” Adrian senses from the look on Helen’s face that he has overdone the incredulity so he adds, “Well, it doesn’t matter. I can get you on the Union bus.”

  “If it’s a Saturday I won’t be able to go. I work Saturdays.” Helen slides the back of her hand under her hair and flicks it back over her shoulder.

  Adrian watches, mesmerized. At last he pulls a leaflet out of his duffel-coat pocket. “Here, write your address on this and then I’ll let you know what’s going on. I can get over to Blackburn any time.”

  Helen takes the proffered biro, writes on the back of the leaflet and hands it back. She feels very daring—giving her address to a complete stranger. Adrian reads it out and Helen nods. “But you’d better not come to the house,” she adds. Adrian looks at her and raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I live on the edge of town. It’s a long way from the center. I could always meet you at the station if you come over.” She’s blushing even as the words are coming out of her mouth.

  “Great!” he replies. “I’ll write you when I’m coming over.”

  “Great!”

  They are interrupted by the sound of one of the students shouting over, “Ade! Are you finished? Put her down, Ade, we’re going. Coach leaves at half past.”

  The café seems very quiet when the students leave until one of the lads in the far corner swaggers up to the jukebox and feeds in a handful of change. Seconds later, after a deal of mechanical shifting, sliding and switching, Billy Fury comes on. Helen looks around. Connie is still deep in conversation with the man behind the bar. Helen gets up from the table and takes her empty glass cup and saucer over to the bar.

  Connie turns and says, “Hiya. Are you going?”

  “Yes, I’d better get back.”

  “Hang on a minute and I’ll come with you.”

  The two girls are temporarily blinded by the sunshine when they step outside. The street is almost empty—the hot weather has drawn everyone to the beach.

  Connie links arms and pulls Helen close. “Did you see that bloke that was serving behind the bar?”

  “The one you were talking to?”

  “Yes, that one. He’s called Rico. He’s only a flippin’ Eyetie!” Seeing the blank look on Helen’s face, she adds, “You know, Italian. Mamma mia, you’re slow! He wants me to meet him after closing tonight.”

  “Are you going?”

  “For God’s sake—no! My mum would bloody kill me if I brought home a darkie.”

  Thursby Road Congregational Church,

  Blackburn, June 1942

  “Friends, we are here to celebrate the joining of two people, Jack Singleton and Ruth Catlow, in holy wedlock. With this marriage comes a further joyful union—that of two families into the wider family of the Church. With this in mind there will be a collection at the end of the service in support of world peace.”

  Michael Ryecroft, minister officiating at the wedding, has a face from which the slightest hint of humor has been assiduously wiped clean. Weddings are a serious business, not an opportunity for general indulgence and off-color jokes. His church attendance is shrinking week by week and it is only the odd wedding that raises the average monthly attendance figure above fourteen. A lesser soul might be depressed by the falling numbers of followers but Michael Ryecroft, mindful of what Jesus achieved with a mere twelve, remains hopeful.

  It’s ironic, Jack thinks. All this talk of joyous unions. A bit of a joke, really. The only joyous union he ever wanted was with Eleni. She’s only been dead a year, but she seems like a dream now, a different lifetime. The initial disapproval on his mother’s face when he announced his intention to marry Ruth Catlow has transmuted over the course of the last six weeks into one of extreme distaste. Jack’s mother has witnessed this morning the massed ranks of Ruth’s relatives making their way, somewhat tardily and with noticeable reluctance, from the back bar of the Old Red Lion to the front porch of the Thursby Road Congregational Church for the start of the wedding ceremony.

  The Singletons, despite wartime restrictions, have dressed for the event, unlike the bride’s family, whose clothes display ample evide
nce of at least a decade of uninterrupted wear. Mr. Catlow, five foot five in his stocking feet, has, in the absence of a clean collar (or indeed any collar at all), borrowed a raincoat from an equally down-at-heel acquaintance “at the dogs.” Furthermore, he has laboriously buttoned said raincoat from a point just below his Adam’s apple to a point just above his ankles. Old Catlow is not a stickler for the finer points of dress in general and buttons in particular. As a result this buttoning marathon has taken the time and the assistance of several further sporting acquaintances to advise, undertake and complete. The bride may have opted for a fashionably “short” pink crêpe wedding dress but the father who accompanies her is forced to haul the front of his raincoat clear of the dusty steps as he passes along the way of penitents, leaning heavily on his daughter.

  Despite the minister’s conviction that all present are members of the same family under God, Mrs. Singleton has her doubts. And since the voicing of these doubts to her husband coincides eerily with moments in the service given over to silent reflection, the rest of the congregation is all too aware of her reservations. Anxious to restore a harmony, which in truth has never existed between the two families, the minister launches himself into a soaring panegyric on the virtues of Ruth Catlow: her constant help in the Sunday School, her cheerful shouldering of the arduous tasks of church warden and church secretary, her eager help at Jacob’s Joins, her support of sick and elderly members of the church, her flower-arranging and tea-making skills, her work for charity and her enthusiasm for Beetle Drives, Bring and Buy, Sales of Work and other activities designed to raise funds for the church. Bearing in mind all her years of service to the church, Michael Ryecroft has taken as the theme of his wedding sermon the merchant and the pearl of great price (Matthew 13: 45–6).

  “When I think of Jack Singleton I’m reminded of the wealthy merchant in the Bible who, having earnestly sought and joyfully discovered a single pearl of such immaculate perfection, is inspired to sacrifice all he has in order to buy it. He is seized by its beauty and worth, carried away by its singular superiority to all others. No price is too high, no sacrifice too great in order to own this immaculate pearl. In this manner does the spiritual seeker sacrifice all to enter the kingdom of heaven. In the same way Jack Singleton has found his own pearl of great price in Ruth. She is truly unique, of immeasurable value. A pearl among women.”

  If members of the congregation fancy they hear a break in the voice of the minister it is only to be expected under the circumstances. Michael Ryecroft, retired plumber and bachelor of this parish, had at one time hopes of a closer relationship with Ruth. But as the Bible itself informed him when he opened it at random in an ecstasy of prayer, the likelihood of his winning the hand of Ruth was similar to that of a camel passing through the eye of a needle. It has taken every bone in his corporeal body for Michael to remain impassive while the woman he loves marries another.

  This laudatory assessment of Ruth is not universally shared by the assembled company—far from it. When the minister identifies Ruth as the pearl of great price, Jack’s mother is heard to remark, “Well, we’ll see about that!” This comment so antagonizes the Catlows that they forthwith refuse to acknowledge the groom’s family’s existence. The wedding breakfast is conducted in silence with only the faint rattle of silver cutlery on china plates from one side of the table and the chink of brown bottle on pint glass from the other. The man with the camera, a quiet person chosen for his wide experience of wedding photography, recognizes the fatal signs early on and does not even attempt a group photograph, devoting his time instead to assembling the bride and family for one shot and the groom and family for another. The single photograph of bride and groom is undertaken with extreme care. Opportunities for action photography at the reception are resisted. As a result there is no actual photographic evidence of the scuffle which takes place, no telltale flash when the bride’s father raises his fists.

  Despite this, the day is reckoned a success. Jack Singleton has secured his pearl and Ruth her rich merchant. The collection box, when it is opened by the minister in the privacy of his room, is virtually empty. The minister sighs. The cause of world peace appears to be even more remote than before. But there is no denying the fact that Jack has found himself a wife who openly worships the ground he walks upon. Nobody could doubt the sincerity of Ruth’s intense attachment. There is nothing she would not do for him. Ruth’s relationship with Jack over the past year, though conducted for the most part from a distance of several thousand miles, has been intense—or as intense as it is possible to be when everything she writes must pass the censor’s gaze. For Ruth the line between passion and carnal sin has, over the months of their separation, faded to a near invisibility. Only Jack’s insistence on marrying a virgin keeps her from mortal sin and drives her desire for him to even greater heights.

  Jack too has felt an overwhelming passion, but it ended when Eleni died and he does not want to feel it again. Ruth Catlow is not the most beautiful nor the most talented woman Jack has known, but he fondly imagines that she can give him something that he longs for, something more permanent, more realistic—the stability, the day-to-day predictability and basic safety of a normal life. Jack has had enough excitement since Hitler invaded Poland to last him a lifetime. Ruth, in contrast, looks forward from her wedding day to all the excitement to come.

  7

  Thrift

  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.

  Prospect, 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 cot
ton 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.

  Blackpool, Wednesday, July 13, 1959

  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.