The Palace of Strange Girls

by Sallie Day

  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?”

  “Seventeen. We were married during the war.”

  “Bit of a whirlwind affair then, was it?”

  “No, not really. I’d already known him some years.”

  “I’ll bet he was one of the first to join up, wasn’t he? Oh, didn’t they look smart in their uniforms? At the beginning it was quite the thing to have a boyfriend in uniform. You used to see them when they came home on leave—swanning around the dance halls and surrounded by girls.”

  Ruth nods. Jack had turned up at church in his khaki uniform. He used to wear his cap at an angle that implied he’d been in uniform since the day he was born. Even the regulation short back and sides looked good on him.

  “Had you been going out with Jack a long time, then?”

  “No, not really.”

  After Jack joined up a number of other members of the congregation followed suit. Eventually there were no young men left in the church. After a while it was suggested that the church ought to keep in contact with members of the congregation who were fighting abroad. Ruth was acting secretary, so the task fell to her. She went round to the families and got the rank and service numbers, and started writing letters of support. Most of them were ignored, but every now and again she’d get a letter back—especially from those lads who didn’t hear a lot from their families.

  “So how did you get together?” Florrie is full of curiosity.

  “We started writing during the war. I’d give him news of what was going on in the town—church events, money-raising drives for armaments, that sort of thing—and he wrote back. It went on from there, really.”

  “There wasn’t a lot they were allowed to tell you, was there? I know when I heard that my first husband had died in Italy I was amazed. I’d no idea he was out there. I thought he was still in France. Half his letters were censored. It used to make me mad. All I wanted to know was where he was and that he was all right. I wasn’t after battle plans—I just wanted to know he was OK.”

  Ruth nods, although her experience was somewhat different. To read Jack’s letters you’d think he was having a whale of a time. He didn’t mention the war once, though Ruth could tell from bits and pieces that he was fighting in Africa and later all over the Mediterranean. He filled his letters with tales of what he’d done on his leave and his plans for the dance band when he got home. He sent a photo of himself on a camel when he was in Palestine, said the locals were friendly. Looking at him, Ruth didn’t doubt it for a minute.

  “It always surprised me how those letters even arrived. The paper we wrote on was little better than blue tissue.”

  “Yes, I’d write one way and write again across the lines when I came to the end of the sheet. Jack’s letters were the same, like a coded puzzle when I opened them. I suppose I got to know him better and better over the months. He was mentioned in dispatches.”

  “What for? What did he do?”

  “Jack won’t talk about it. He won’t even talk about his time on Crete. But his mother said he’d carried a soldier to safety. He must have been in a fair state himself because he went straight into hospital when he got back to Egypt. Anyway, later, when I heard he had lobar pneumonia, I started writing t
o him regularly. We got married the next time he was home on leave.”

  “He’s an attractive man. You must have to put up with other women chasing him. It must be a right headache.”

  Ruth stiffens at the suggestion. “Not at all. I worry about a number of things, but I never worry about him being involved with anyone else.”

  “But how can you be sure?”

  “He’d rather die than do anything that would hurt his family. He’s that sort of man. Family comes first. Anyway he’d be lucky to find another woman who’d care for him the way I do. He sits down to a full cooked meal and home baking every day. There isn’t a spot of dust in the house, I make sure of that. He’d be hard pushed to find another woman who’d look after him so well.”

  Connie has merged into the surroundings so effectively that she’s been pretending to wipe down the next table for at least five minutes and nobody has noticed. She has been eavesdropping ever since she heard Jack’s name mentioned. For all the attention the women have paid to her she might as well be invisible. The envy she feels is outweighed by an overwhelming curiosity. Ma Singleton’s account of their marriage has inspired the waitress. Connie can do a lot more for Jack than just look after the house. And she intends to show him tonight. The moment the idea enters her head she is overtaken by impatience to see him. It is with this in mind that she ventures even closer to where Ruth and Florrie are sitting and asks, “Will your husbands be in later?”

  “Well, mine would,” Florrie says, “if it was beer you were serving, love. And I don’t think Mr. Singleton will be down either. Didn’t you say he was putting Elizabeth down for her nap, Ruth?”

  Ruth nods her head and empties the hot-water jug into the teapot in the hope of diluting Florrie’s brew. This is exactly what Connie wanted to hear. She abandons the table she was clearing and disappears with her tray. Back in the still room she makes up another tea tray with a giant slice of cake and pushes it in the dumbwaiter. She then sprints up to the lobby and, seeing the reception desk empty, dips behind the counter. It is a moment’s work to find the Visitors’ Book and ascertain the Singletons’ room numbers. The lift is out of bounds to staff—maintenance men, chambermaids, waitresses and kitchen workers are ordered to use the gloomy back stairs. Bearing this in mind, Connie looks both ways before she steps smartly into the lift for the third floor. Once there, she retrieves the tea tray from the dumbwaiter, no minor achievement since she has to haul the rope the distance of three floors. She walks smartly to number 351 and knocks on the door. There is no reply. Frustrated, Connie imagines that Jack must still be up on the next floor putting Beth to bed. She picks up the tray and re-enters the lift. She’s visited Helen’s room often enough to remember the number. Once there, she stops and listens at the keyhole. She can hear two voices.

  “Do I have to put my nightie on?”

  “Yes. You don’t want to get sand from your socks and shorts all inside the bed, do you? You’ll be a lot more comfy in your nightie.”

  “Why is my nightie hairy?”

  “It’s made of flannelette.”

  “Well, it feels fuzzy to me.”

  “That’s because it has been finished. It’s been put through a machine with lots of sharp teeth that raises the surface of the material.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that it scratches the cloth so that the little cotton fibers come up from the surface. They trap the heat. That’s what makes your nightie cozy.”

  Connie listens to the conversation for several minutes, hoping that Jack will finish putting Beth to bed and come out of the room. At last she loses her patience and knocks on the door. It is some moments before there is any answer. The door opens a crack and Connie is elated to catch a glimpse of Jack. “Hello, lover,” she says.

  “Sh-h-h. Be quiet! She’s still awake. What are you doing here?”

  “Room service. I thought I’d bring you a cup of tea up seeing as you won’t come down. I’ve cut you an extra big slice of cake—you’ll need plenty of energy for what I’ve got planned for tonight.”

  “This isn’t a good idea. It’s too risky. You have to go.”

  “Well, that’s a fine way to talk. You didn’t seem that bothered about the risk last night. Come on, Jack. At least take the tray after I’ve gone to the trouble to bring it up. I was hoping we could sort out about tonight.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Where we’re going to meet. What you’d like to do with me—although I’ll bet I can guess.”

  Connie giggles but Jack appears to have missed the joke. “You shouldn’t be up here, Connie. You’ll be in bother if you’re caught.”

  “I don’t care. They can sack me if they want. I can easily get a job somewhere else. Anyway, what’s happening tonight? Where shall I meet you?”

  “You’ll have to go. You’re not supposed to be up here. What if my wife comes up?”

  “She won’t. She’s stuck in the lounge with Ma Clegg.”

  A small high voice pipes up from within the room: “Daddy? Who’s at the door?”

  Jack looks over his shoulder into the room. “Nobody. Go to sleep now, Sputnik.” Jack steps out of the room and joins Connie in the corridor. “I’m sorry, Connie. I mean about last night. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Don’t say that! It was fun. We can have some more fun tonight.”

  “No. It was a mistake. All my fault. I should never have walked you back, should never have started it, but it has to stop now.”

  Connie pushes out her breasts, balances the tray in one hand and slips the other inside his jacket but Jack backs away. “Don’t say that, Jack. You know I love you. I’ll be finished by eight. I’ll see you at Yates’s. You said yourself, it’s no place for a girl to be drinking alone.”

  Connie throws her weight on to her left leg, pushing out her right hip and gives Jack a coquettish smile. Jack lapses into silence. He eyes the top of the white waitress apron that fails to cover Connie’s breasts.

  “That’s fixed, then. I’ll see you at Yates’s,” Connie says before he has a chance to reply.

  “No! I can’t meet you at Yates’s. Half the lads at work will be there. We’ll be seen.”

  Connie looks surprised. “It doesn’t matter if we’re seen. People are going to find out eventually anyway.”

  “No! I can’t. You have to go now. You’ll be missed.”

  “You can come to my room, then. I’ll wait for you there, shall I? Be there at eight.”

  There is the squeak of bedsprings, the swish of covers being pulled back and a light patter of footsteps.

  “I have to go,” Jack says, dipping back into his daughters’ room.

  “Eight o’clock then,” Connie repeats as Jack is shutting the door.

  17

  Warning Notice

  There are always warning notices at the seaside. They are put there in order to ensure the safety of all visitors. Some notices warn of high tides or flooding. Some warn of danger from overhead wires, or unexpectedly deep pools, or quicksand, or heavy currents. The seaside can be a dangerous place. You must obey every sign you see. Score 20 points for staying safe!

  Beth has discovered a new game. It’s called “Follow Gunner” and it’s the best game she’s ever played. It all started when she plucked up the courage to ask Mr. Titherington, the hotel manager, if she could take Gunner for a walk.

  “If it’s all right with your mum and dad, it’s OK with me.”

  Beth assures him that her parents won’t mind at all. She would go upstairs and ask but she’s been sent off to play and not disturb them. A smile crosses the manager’s face when he hears this. Sadly, he is mistaken. Beth’s parents have sought the privacy of their hotel room in order to finish the heated argument held over from that morning. Ruth is determined to get Jack to agree to chuck in the foreman’s job and take the Union’s offer of area rep. She has detailed the reasons on several occasions. Ruth can’t understand why Jack still won’t make up his min
d. What more does he want?

  Meanwhile downstairs their younger daughter is listening carefully to Mr. Titherington. “Here you are, then,” he says, passing the lead to Beth. “Don’t take him along the backstreets. He’s a bugger for getting into dustbins. And mind, don’t let him off his lead.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll either get into a fight or run away. You’ll not let him off, will you?”

  Beth promises to keep Gunner on his lead but secretly she feels sorry for the dog. She believes it’s sad to tie up animals, they should be free. The nurse tied her to a trolley in the hospital and it isn’t nice. It’s frightening. The thought stays with her as she walks the dog up to the prom. Gunner is dragging on the lead. He isn’t keen to go. Beth stops again and strokes the dog in the hope of encouraging him forward. Gunner takes a couple of steps and sits down, giving Beth a reproachful look. Beth is convinced that Gunner would like it much better if he were allowed to run free.

  She reaches down to unclip the lead and suddenly has a good idea. Why shouldn’t Gunner decide where he wants to go? If she keeps the lead slack he could pretend that he’s free and just go where he likes. It would be even better if Beth closes her eyes—that way Gunner could take her anywhere. But how to get the dog started? Beth tries several ideas (clicking her tongue and flicking the lead across Gunner’s back as if he were a horse; pretending she has a sweet in her hand; standing behind him and pushing) until at last she makes a noise like a steam engine: ch-ch-ch, the sound universally understood to indicate the presence of a cat. And he’s off like a shot, dragging Beth down the nearest alleyway in search of the imaginary cat. Beth is elated. She is forced to run at full pelt to keep the lead slack. “Go, Gunner!” Beth pants, shutting her eyes as the dog careers down yet another alley.

  This is the most exciting game ever. Beth is tugged blindly down foreign streets, brought to an abrupt stop at the edge of roads and then, equally abruptly, dragged across at breathtaking speed. Dog and girl are in complete harmony, Beth giggling with excitement and Gunner snorting at every lamppost and growling at passing dogs. Beth’s chest aches with laughter. She opens one eye every now and again, keen to see where Gunner is taking her. Once she almost trips over a loose cobble and nearly goes headfirst, but Gunner is still pulling so hard she is dragged back to her feet. She is whipped round corners, dragged down alleys, hauled across roads. This is the best fun that Beth has ever had. Saliva drips down her chin as she gasps for breath, her nose is assaulted by the smell of food—from hot dogs and boiled onions to vinegar, chips and hot sweet rock. Beth imagines that they must be some way from the hotel now. Gunner has slowed down to a bright trot and Beth opens her eyes. She is in the middle of a backstreet she has never seen before. She can hear the passing of traffic and fairground music in the far distance. The backstreet is lined with high wooden gates, some of them locked shut and others wide open. Beth bends to stroke Gunner. “Where are we?” she whispers.