by Sallie Day
“I’ve bought some material.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s pink roses. It’ll look gorgeous made up into a dress.”
“Oh, let me see!”
Ruth unwraps a corner of the parcel enough to give Cora a glimpse of the fabric.
“Oh, Ruth. It’s lovely. I’d love a dress made out of that.”
“It’s called ‘Romance.’”
The women exchange glances and laugh.
“I should be so lucky,” Cora says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at me, Ruth. Married for all these years and still no sign of a baby. Oh, I long for a baby of my own to hold. I’m fed up of being ‘auntie’ wherever I go. No one else has any problem getting pregnant. It’s just me.”
“Don’t be daft, Cora. Loads of couples have difficulties. And anyway, why do you think it’s your fault? What about Ronald?”
“Well, I don’t know. Ronnie has a difficult job and he’s quite often tired. And, of course, he’s out every night with one thing and another…” Cora’s voice trails off.
“Well, there you are then. You’d better make the best of getting him on holiday.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, it is. You’ll see. You don’t need to be clever to get pregnant.” Despite the dim light Ruth sees the beginnings of tears in Cora’s eyes. “There,” she says. “Don’t cry, Cora. It’ll all come right.”
“How’s Helen?” Cora asks, changing the subject.
“Driving me round the bend. She’s forever telling me what Blanche does, or what Blanche thinks, or what Blanche says. I’m up to here with it…”
“Well, Blanche must seem very sophisticated to a girl Helen’s age.”
“She’s a bad influence. She was plain old Peggy Watson until she got her hooks into the mayor. You can laugh, Cora, but it’s true. It was her horizontal charms that got her where she is today. And him married with five children. Of course, they’d been knocking around together for years. They were doing all their courting in the back of the mayor’s car until he finally set her up in a flat on Scotland Road. It was above what used to be Redman’s grocers. Anyway, the shop closed down during the war and the mayor bought it. The paper quoted him as saying that he was ‘setting an example by investing in local business.’ It was enough to make a cat laugh. Next thing she’s changed her name and set up as ‘Blanche Fashions.’”
“She’s a woman and a half, isn’t she?”
“She’s a bad example. She treats Helen like a fellow adult and that’s asking for trouble. She’s still at school, for goodness’ sake. Helen’s so keen to work at the shop she didn’t want to come away on holiday.”
“Well, she isn’t the only one who had second thoughts about coming away, is she?”
Cora watches as Ruth shakes her head. “I still think it’s a risk bringing Elizabeth away so soon after her operation. She’s not right in herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’ll barely speak and she’s still sleepwalking. She wakes up crying and she won’t tell me what’s wrong. She’s not right, not right at all.”
“What do you mean, Ruth? They wouldn’t have let her out of hospital if she wasn’t right.”
“They let me bring her home because she wasn’t getting any better after the operation. Not like she should. They thought she might improve if she was at home with her family.”
“And she has, hasn’t she?”
“Not so as you’d notice. I don’t think she’s going to get better. If she catches a cold, with the state of her chest that’ll be it. She won’t pull through. Not a second time.” Ruth pulls out her handkerchief. “I don’t know what’s worse—her dying in hospital or at home. And nothing I can do about it.”
“She’s not going to die! You’re worrying about something that’s not going to happen. Buck up, Ruth.”
Ruth wipes her eyes. “You don’t understand. It’s all my fault. When she was born I…”
Cora interrupts before Ruth can continue. “It’s not your fault. That’s ridiculous. Come on. Oh, I know something that’ll cheer you up. Guess who I bumped into last week? Miss Wren.”
“Our old teacher?”
“The very same. Now sit up straight and recite after me… ‘The efficient running of a house, the effective nurturing and bringing up of children in an ordered and hygienic environment, is a science in the truest sense of the word. It requires intelligence, aptitude and full-time commitment. Never forget that, ladies.’”
The memory of Marion Wren holding forth on subjects domestic at the college on Ink Street is enough to make both Ruth and Cora smile. The Diploma in Household Management course ran every Tuesday night. Over the four years Ruth and Cora learned everything from when to clean velvet drapes to how to cook for a family of four from the weekly rations. By the end of the first year Ruth and Cora were firm friends—if for no other reason than they were the only women who had a genuine interest in the lectures and assignments. Although she wasn’t even courting at the time Ruth dreamed of getting married and having children, and Cora, already engaged to Ronnie, was determined to be the perfect wife. A diploma was awarded at the end of each year successfully completed. Ruth and Cora came out with a total of four diplomas for cookery, dressmaking, laundry and child care.
“Do you remember prizegiving day? What a palaver we had with your mother! I thought I’d die laughing when she put that hat on.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Ruth’s mother had lost all her hair when she was a child and, as a result, refused to go out. Collecting enough clothing coupons to get her a decent dress was the least of Ruth’s worries—what was she going to do about her mother’s hair? In the end Cora managed, by a mixture of charm and barefaced bribery, to get hold of a hank of real hair. Ruth sewed a little hat for her mother and they attached the roll of hair under the brim, only to find that the old woman had put it on back to front. Cora’s mother died before the war and her father was too busy in the shop to attend the prize-giving, so Ruth and Cora clubbed together for a taxi and the three of them arrived at the college in style.
“You know, Ruth, I was thinking of going back.”
“To the college? Are they still running the course? I thought Miss Wren had retired now.”
“She has. But I saw they’re starting an International Cookery course in September. Ronnie enjoys foreign food, you know. I thought I might give it a try.”
“What a good idea, Cora. You’ll love it and it’ll take your mind off things.”
“M-m-m.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, I thought it was a good idea, but when I asked Ronnie he wasn’t keen. He’s talked me out of it. He’s right, I don’t need to learn to cook fancy food—we have Mrs. Maguire to do that. And if we want something a bit special we can always go out to a restaurant. Ronnie always says, ‘You don’t need to know how to cook me a moussaka, Cora. Just make sure you’re looking beautiful when I get home. That’s what you do best.’”
“You can do a lot more than just look pretty, Cora. You won Best Student at the college three years running.”
“I don’t think that cuts much ice with Ronnie. He’d laugh out loud if I told him that.”
Ruth tries not to look as angry as she feels. Ronald Lloyd was full of himself when he was still at school and he hasn’t improved in the intervening period. Ruth would see a lot more of Cora if it were not for Ronald. Cora’s husband has a clear idea about “suitable friends” and Ruth suspects she isn’t on the list. Ruth can count the number of times she’s spoken to Ronald on one hand.
The waitress comes to the table with the bill and Ruth roots around in her purse. Eventually she pulls out a ten-shilling note and hands it over to the waitress, who clicks her tongue and says, “Haven’t you anything less?”
Ruth returns to the inner pockets of her purse and counts out one shilling and ninepence. “I’m a thrupenny
bit short—have you got the rest, Cora?”
“Er… No, I don’t think I have,” Cora says, opening and promptly closing her bag. There is nothing for it but to send the waitress away with the ten-shilling note and wait for the change.
“You’ve not lost it, have you?”
“What?”
“Your purse.”
“Oh, no. I just forgot to bring it out with me. The truth is I don’t bother carrying a purse. Not generally. Not nowadays.”
“Why ever not?”
“Well, I don’t need to, do I? Ronnie does all the money. He’s opened accounts for me at various shops. He says it’s so much easier that way. It’s the way his father dealt with things and his mother was certainly never short of anything. And anyway, Ronnie takes care of all the bills and the housekeeper does all the household shopping. I have an account with Blanche and at the hairdresser. I mean, there isn’t a lot left to spend money on.”
“And what if you want to shop somewhere different?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if you fancy a different hairdresser? What do you do then?”
“Well, I don’t. I mean I wouldn’t, would I?”
“Why not?”
“Because Ronnie likes the way Sylvia does my hair. Don’t be silly, Ronnie does this in order to make life easier for me.”
“Does he?”
“Well, of course.”
“And what are you expected to do with your time?”
“Anything I like. Although there isn’t a lot for me to do in the house. Ronnie has been on to me to join the Townswomen’s Guild.”
“Cora, even I’m too young for the Townswomen’s Guild.”
Both women are still laughing when the waitress finally returns with Ruth’s change. Basic thrift prevents Ruth from leaving a tip, but she does smile at the waitress as they leave.
8
Piddock
A piddock is a boring mollusc about half an inch long and it makes its home inside rocks. Its pale brown sharp shell helps it to bore into sandstone or any soft rock. Pick up a pebble to give it a shake! If you can hear a faint rattle then you’ve found a piddock! Score 75 points for a boring mollusc.
In the absence of her mother Beth is effectively marooned in the deckchair Ruth stuck her in before leaving. The shiny striped canvas resists all the child’s efforts to escape and it is only after she has been wriggling for a full ten minutes that Jack finally looks up from his paper and says, “Do you want to get down now, Sputnik?”
Beth nods and stretches her arms up to be lifted. Jack picks her up and swings her back and forth a few times, pretending to toss her into the sea before finally lowering her gently on to the sands. Once she’s found her feet, Jack checks his jacket pocket. The letter is still there. Waiting for him.
“Can I go on the donkeys?”
“We’ll ask your mum when she gets back from shopping.”
“But, look! That’s Red Hawk. The boy from the hotel. He’s having a ride. And he had a ride before. It’s not fair. He’s riding that donkey all the time.”
“Cheer up, Sputnik, he’ll not be taking it home with him. He’d not get it on the coach, for a start.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your Uncle Dougie tried it once. For a bet. The daft beggar.”
Beth would have liked to see it, but the Singletons always come to Blackpool by steam train. Jack would rather pay the extra five bob and travel in relative comfort.
Old George Pomfret of “Pomfret’s Pleasure Trips” is notoriously selective about what he will allow on his coaches—particularly where nonessentials such as luggage, bicycles, boxes, musical instruments, etc., are concerned. In short, anything that can’t easily be charged for is vigorously resisted. In the winter evenings of 1958 Pomfret has calculated precisely how much it costs to convey a standard-sized passenger with a single suitcase from Blackburn cattle market to Blackpool central. The differential between unit cost and the actual price of a return ticket warms the heart. But holidaymakers refuse to behave in any ordered, “unit cost” manner. They pay for their ticket in advance and then turn up on the day with any number of suitcases, carrier bags, bats, balls, bags of food and bottles of lemonade. They expect to get the lot on the coach. Free. There’s the further problem of the odd passenger (usually of the feminine persuasion) who needs a whole seat to herself—this puts Pomfret’s calculations into such disarray that he is forced to loosen his overstretched braces and mop his ample brow. And, to top it all, there’s the annual problem of Dougie Fairbrother. This particular customer is guilty of sneaking crates of beer in through the back emergency escape window. Every year there’s havoc. The central aisle is heaving with bodies struggling to secure a few bottles for themselves before the coach has even set off. The suspicion remains fixed in the coach owner’s mind that Dougie Fairbrother makes more of a profit on the trip than Pomfret himself. Running Wakes Week coaches to Blackpool is a right palaver and it’s only a sense of civic duty that keeps old Pomfret going. That and the money.
Beth is bored. She runs the heels of her new sandals through the sand, raking up damp ramparts, then kicking them up in the air. Jack sweeps the airborne sand from his newspaper three times before he reaches into his pocket and says, “Take your sister up on to the prom, will you, Helen? Here’s some money for the slot machines.”
Helen, who is squinting at the small ads in the NME, groans as her dad empties a pile of pennies into her hand. “I’m supposed to be on holiday, not babysitting.”
“A bit of exercise will do you good.”
“Can we go to the pier?” Beth asks the moment they are out of earshot.
“No! You know we’re not allowed.”
“Well, I don’t want to go ON it. I want to go UNDER it. The bit where the rock pools are. Over there. See?”
“The answer is still no.”
“But why? Mummy is shopping and Daddy is reading his newspaper. There’s no one to see. Why can’t we go?”
“Because you’ll blab and I’ll catch it.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“You will.” Helen sighs. “You can’t help it.”
“But I need to fill in my I-Spy.”
“Here, let me look.” Helen leafs through the book for a minute and says, “It’s no good, Beth. There’s only a couple of days left, you’ll never finish filling in the book. You’ll have to cheat.”
The book is looking the worse for wear; the covers are creased and the once bright staples are covered in a dull patina that is a prelude to rust. Inside, the pages, though well thumbed, are empty of scores. Beth is not allowed to go exploring by herself so three pages of shellfish and jellyfish remain resolutely unmarked by her pencil, not to mention a further two pages about rock pools. Granted, she has found two different types of seaweed (bladderwrack and serrated wrack) and the odd shell (periwinkle, chipped cockle and half a razor shell), but overall she has scored no more than sixty-five points. She needs a minimum of 1,250 before Big Chief I-Spy can award her second-class honors and the rank of “Beachcomber.” Nevertheless, when Helen suggests cheating Beth is horrified. “I can’t cheat! What if Big Chief I-Spy sees me?”
Over the past week Big Chief I-Spy has figured so large in Beth’s mind that she has elevated him to a standing equal to that of Baby Jesus. He, like the Holy Infant, must be watching everything all the time. How else could he fill a whole book with things to see? Things Beth didn’t even know existed.
Helen is not convinced. “Don’t be daft. Big Chief ‘I-Spy with my little eye’ will never know if you cheat a bit. He’s probably too busy boiling his socks at the Wigwam-by-the-Water in London to be bothered with you.”
“How far away is London?”
“As far as you can sneeze and then a lot further.”
Beth looks worried.
“Put it this way, you’re not going to bump into him on the prom. London is a couple of hundred miles away, you nit.”
Beth cons
iders her options. It’s difficult to cheat with the book because you always have to write in where you saw the thing you’ve spied. Like the name of the lightship you’ve spotted, or the shape of the funnel on a tanker, or what color legs the herring gull has.
“Look, what do you want to spot?” Helen continues.
“Shellfish.”
“OK, then. This way.” Helen veers away from the steps up to the prom and heads instead towards a little green stall in the distance, barely visible on the crowded sands.
“What d’you want?” The stallholder is a middle-aged man with muscular white fingers that are shiny with salt water and fish innards.
“What have you got?” Helen asks with her sweetest smile.
“Oysters, cockles, mussels, jellied eels, potted prawns, boiled lobster and crab. All fresh today. What do you want?”
Helen turns to her little sister, who is frantically scribbling in her I-Spy book. “Have you got that?”
“Nearly,” Beth says, pencil scrawling across the page.
The stallholder and Helen wait. A minute passes during which there is some shuffling and muttering in the queue.
“Have you remembered prawns?” Helen asks. There is a renewed flurry of activity while Beth finds the right page and ticks the box.
“Oi, young lady. I’ve got a bloody queue waiting here. Make up your mind. What do you want?”
“Oh,” says Helen, “nothing, thanks. We’ve changed our minds.” Beth and Helen turn and walk away under the furious stares of waiting customers.
Beth is elated. That’s two hundred and twenty points. “Where are we going now?”
“Up there on the prom. Don’t you want to spend your pennies?”
“No, I want to carry on spying things. There are pages of boats and ships and flags and things to spot.”
“You’ll need a telescope to spot all those. Come on. I think we can risk spending a penny.”
Both girls laugh at the joke. They start to climb the wooden steps that lead up to the prom. Halfway up Helen stops in order to give Beth a rest. Looking down, she sees the grain in the wood planking has opened up under the onslaught of the salt water tide. The surface of the wood is pale, cracked and grooved with a scouring of sand. The step sags with the weight of summer visitors hurrying down with deckchairs, then returning with the tide, trailing tired children and dripping swimming costumes. Beth starts to move again and the sisters climb the rest of the steps. Once again Helen stops, leaning against the railings and looking out to sea while Beth gets her breath back. There are one or two dark spots on the horizon, but it’s not clear whether they’re ships or buoys.
