The Palace of Strange Girls

by Sallie Day

  “She’s a friend of Helen’s.”

  “Bloody hell. You’ve been playing a bit close to home, haven’t you? Is it likely to get out?”

  “I don’t know. She’d fixed up for us to meet up tonight. But I didn’t go.”

  Dougie starts to laugh again, “Well, you may be a fair few years older but you’ve obviously still got what it takes!”

  Jack gives him the faintest of smiles.

  “It’ll sort itself out. If Ruth cottons on then you’ll have to tell her that it wouldn’t have happened if she’d been a bit more accommodating. Who can blame you if you have to go elsewhere for what, by rights, you should be getting at home? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bit of pleasure. God knows you could do with it. Life isn’t all hard graft and overtime, Jack.”

  “I want to go back to Crete.”

  Dougie is at a loss to understand. As far as he is concerned they were talking about Jack having a good time with a waitress. Now the subject has changed. “What’s this about Crete?”

  “I want to go back.”

  “What? Am I hearing you right? Didn’t you see enough of it during the war? Have you gone daft? Have you forgotten what happened?”

  Jack doesn’t answer.

  Imbros Gorge, Crete, May 30, 1941

  It is early morning. Jack and Nibs have spent an uneasy night in near freezing temperatures. They wake to find muscles stiff from a night without cover, flesh that is numb with the cold, feet and hands that ache with the smallest movement. There is nothing to eat, no dry rations or even foraged berries. They pass a canteen of water between them, shudder at the shock of cold water in their throats. Sitting on the rocks above the track, they watch as a ragged stream of retreating soldiers stumble down into the gorge. This final leg of the journey should be relatively straightforward. It will be a long walk but the high sides of the gorge will provide some protection, and beyond it lie the beach and the prospect of rescue.

  They are following a goat track down a shallow gully when they hear the approach of enemy aircraft. The Allied antiaircraft guns on the plateau above them kick in and the ground shudders with the firing. Jack watches as the bombs topple out of the planes and waits for the sound of the impact. Having discharged its load, one of the Messerschmitts banks steeply to avoid returning fire and begins to strafe the surrounding area. Seeing the approach of the Messerschmitts, Jack and Nibs dive for cover. Seconds later Jack feels the heat of bullets passing his cheek and hears the branches above his head burst into splinters of wood and torn leaves. Bullets ricochet wildly around the rocks. There’s a cry from over to his right and Nibs topples forward to lie on the floor of the gully. A mixture of shock and blind terror stops Jack from moving immediately. A bullet has grazed his cheek but he is otherwise unharmed. The sight of Nibs lying in a fast-spreading pool of blood jolts Jack into action. When he reaches the injured man he discovers that Nibs has been hit twice in the leg. These look to be flesh wounds but when Jack turns him over he sees that his friend has been hit in the shoulder as well. The wound is bursting blood across the pale rocks that cover the gully floor. Nibs is still conscious and screaming with the pain. Without a first-aid pack or any way to stanch the blood other than strips ripped from his shirt, Jack is reduced to patching up what he can, all the time assuring Nibs that the wounds aren’t serious, that there’ll be another aid post further down the gorge, that they’ll reach Sfakion in two shakes.

  Supporting Nibs with his right arm, Jack starts the long descent. It is pitch black at the bottom of the gorge, the rock walls rising 2,000 feet above their heads, and the floor of the gorge narrows, compressing the disparate groups of soldiers into one long line of retreat. Jack’s ears are filled with the constant drone of bombers and the rock-strewn path at his feet switches this way and that like a dog’s hind leg. They have not been going for twenty minutes when Nibs’s screams change to groans and finally silence as he loses consciousness. Jack stops, panic-stricken. He lowers Nibs to the ground, checks his friend’s neck and, feeling a pulse, is reassured. There is no alternative. Jack will have to carry him the rest of the way. He hefts the limp body of Nibs on to his back. It is a crushing weight. Jack can feel his chest straining for breath as he starts forward with the burden.

  Halfway down the gorge and the effort of moving one foot in front of the other is overwhelming. Jack is empty of both thought and feeling. He is only aware of the river of sweat that oozes down his back. He wants to stop and rest but the weight and the fear are killing him. His legs, which should have given way long ago, continue to move without any conscious direction from him. He can feel nothing now, not even hunger. Nibs has been quiet for a long time, and despite the troops in front and behind him, Jack has the sensation of being totally alone. He is now barely aware of the weight he is carrying, or where he is heading. He is driven by some automatic response beyond fear and despair. Even the blinding sunlight and the breadth of the open sea that greet him when he reaches the end of the gorge fail to register. Jack is still struggling through the endless darkness, the weight of Nibs across his shoulders, his blood-soaked shirt sticking to his back and chest as he grasps the lifeless hand of his friend.

  Jack is shaken back into the present by the sound of Dougie banging another couple of pints down on the table in front of him. Dougie takes a gulp of his beer and says, “Look, Jack, lots of the lads were like this after the war. They came home and discovered it wasn’t all that they’d hoped it would be. They’d not been back more than a couple of months when they were looking for a way out. Is that it? Is that what’s bothering you? You’re a daft bugger. You’d be crazy to leave. Especially when you’re about to start making a lot more money. There’s no reason to go back, is there?”

  Jack pulls out the photograph of Eleni and the boy.

  Dougie looks hard at the black-and-white picture for a few moments before saying, “It’s a picture of you and a girl. Taken in Crete, was it? I’ve seen hundreds of photos like it from the war. I’ve even got a few myself. What’s so special?” Dougie hands the photo back. “Short of wondering what you’re doing out of uniform, that is. Who’s the woman? She’s a stunner.”

  “She’s called Eleni. The photo was taken last year.”

  Doug needs a minute or two to take this in. At last he says, “Well, if it’s not you, who’s the lad standing next to her, then?” Jack is silent. Dougie takes the photo a second time and peers at the figures, turning towards the light streaming out of the Albion’s double doors in an attempt to see better.

  “There’s no point,” snaps Jack, snatching back the photo. “He’s mine. He’s my son.”

  Dougie recovers from the shock of this revelation surprisingly quickly. He takes another sip of his beer and gives Jack a long, cool look. “What’s this Eleni asking for?”

  “Nothing.”

  Dougie shakes his head. “They’re the worst.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why send you the bloody thing if she doesn’t want anything? What’s the point?”

  “She says they’d both like to see me.”

  “I’d like to come up on the pools, but that’s not going to happen either.”

  “It’s not that straightforward.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean I want to see Eleni, and the lad as well.”

  “Give it time, Jack. You’ll get over it. If you’re determined to do something, send her a few quid and then forget about it. She’s managed by herself since you left and she’ll manage again.”

  “No. I can’t. I can’t carry on the way I’ve been doing. I’m half mad with thinking it over and over. I’ve got to see her. A photo isn’t enough. I have to see her. I thought she was dead, killed when the village was bombed.”

  “But what about Ruth? She’ll not stand you buggerin’ off to Crete.”

  “I’d never have got mixed up with Ruth if I’d known that Eleni was still alive.”

  “You’ve done a bit more than just
get mixed up, Jack. You’ve been married seventeen years and had two daughters.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Ruth.”

  “Well, God knows, I can understand if you’re wanting to get shut.”

  Jack stares into his pint while he struggles to make some sort of a reply. At last he says, “You’ve got to make allowances for Ruth. She had a rough time when she was younger. She does her best. She’s a good mother to the girls and she’s a hard worker.”

  “Aye, but there has to be more than that. Why did you marry her in the first place?”

  “I’ve told you, I thought Eleni was dead.”

  “Aye, but you could have married anybody. Can’t you remember why you chose Ruth?”

  Jack can remember. He can remember quite clearly. November 1941. He’d got a week’s leave and spent it at the Southgate Hotel near Sidi Bishri beach. There’d been a mail drop, the first for a couple of months, just before he’d left. The Southgate was run by an Englishwoman—a sort of home from home. He’d just slept for the first couple of days and so it was the third day before he’d got round to opening his post. There were five letters from Ruth—she’d worked out he was on Crete but still hadn’t heard whether he’d got off safely. From the dates on the letters it was apparent that she’d written every few days, hoping for news. Instead of the usual tidbits of church news and local gossip, these letters were full of her concern for him, anxiety for his welfare and hopes for his safe return. He supposed that the possibility that he was dead had made her more open about her feelings. Either way, he was touched. He could hear her voice as he read the words. It meant a lot. And the more he studied the letters in the quiet of the hotel the more he felt the strength of her devotion. By the end of the week he had decided. He would buy a ring and marry her when he was next home on leave. The knowledge not only gave him immediate peace but also a reason to carry on after the loss of Eleni.

  Back in Blackpool, Jack leans forward and takes up his pint. Dougie is waiting for a reply. Why had he married Ruth? “She’s a good woman,” Jack says. Dougie cracks out laughing when he hears this. “What’s tickling you?” Jack asks.

  “I was just remembering, that’s all. Remembering meeting you on Oxford Road with a woman on each arm. What was it you used to say? ‘God help me, I’m not ready for a good woman yet, Dougie.’”

  “Well, by the time I married Ruth I was. I just wanted to settle down. I lost my appetite for playing the field in Crete. When I lost Eleni I’d had enough. I just didn’t want to start again, looking for someone else. I was so tired after Crete. I was never that tired in my life before, or since. I felt like I was hollow, eaten away with exhaustion. And lonely. I just wanted to belong to someone. And Ruth was as good a bet as any. She may not have been as much fun as the girls I used to knock around with, but there again after the war, excitement was the last thing I was after. And Ruth wasn’t going to get herself killed like Eleni, or run off with someone else the minute my back was turned like Cora. I thought that Ruth was a safe bet. And I was right. Marrying Ruth was the right thing to do at the time. It only turned sour in the last year since the little girl got ill.”

  “And is Beth the reason you don’t leave?”

  “It’s not just that. I’ve a duty to both girls. Anyway, I’m no use to Beth. I can’t bear to see her so ill. When she got a collapsed lung after the operation I caught myself thinking she’d be better off dead than crippled for life with a bad chest.”

  “But you said that she’s getting better now. She’s right enough now, isn’t she?”

  “Depends what you mean by ‘better.’ She has nightmares every night, she’s missed the best part of a term and the school says she’ll struggle to catch up. Some days she won’t talk at all—she just nods or shakes her head. She doesn’t trust anybody, I can see it in her face. Not that I see a lot of her what with all the overtime I do.”

  “She’ll come round. Just wait. Both lasses would be heart-broken if you walked out.”

  “You think so? How upset do you think Helen’s going to be when she hears I’ve been in bed with her best friend?”

  “Deny it.” Jack shakes his head. “I mean it. Deny everything,” Dougie insists. “It’ll all settle down. Ruth will think that waitress is nothing more than a teenager with a crush. You’re just having a rough time at the moment. Everything will sort itself out in the finish.”

  “Well, if nothing else, it has solved one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I may not be able to go out to Crete yet, but I’ve decided to take the manager’s job at Prospect. I’m going to turn down the Union’s offer.”

  “Well, thank God you’re finally seeing sense. You’d be a fool to take less cash with the Union. Principles are all well and good, but they don’t buy the bacon. Have you told Ruth?”

  “No, I’ll tell her tomorrow. We’re due to go over to St. Anne’s for a couple of hours without the girls. It’ll be a chance for us to have a quiet chat on the way back. I’ll tell her then.”

  “Aye, get her told. She’ll be over the moon. What are you going to do with all the extra cash? Buy Ruth one of those new semis she’s been pining for?”

  “I’m not taking out a mortgage to buy a bloody semi.”

  “What are you going to do with all the extra, then?”

  “I’ll send some to Eleni and the rest I’ll save. I will go back to Crete. I’ve a lad there I’ve never seen.”

  It’s late before Jack and Dougie leave the pub. Jack is looking the worse for wear. Dougie offers to walk back to the Belvedere with him but Jack refuses. The walk along the prom has a sobering effect on Jack. After a few minutes he’s aware of footsteps running up behind him.

  “Why, if it isn’t the resident fucking gigolo.” Jack carries on walking. “Are you deaf? I’m talking to you, you bastard.”

  Jack finally stops and turns round to face the voice. The man’s face is familiar but Jack has trouble remembering where he’s seen it before. The speaker is slight but muscular, red hair, pasty white face scattered with freckles. He’s already got his fists clenched as he closes in on Jack.

  “What’s biting you?” Jack asks, raising his hand to ward the man off.

  “I’d run off quick if I was you. After all, you’ve a talent for running off, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know who you are or what you want. You need to get home. It’s too late to be spoiling for a fight.” Jack turns away. A second later he feels a blow land on the back of his head, forcing his skull sideways, making him stagger forward. Jack grabs on to the railings to steady himself and turns again to look at his assailant. The man is bearing down on him, both fists clenched and guarding his face as if he were a trained boxer. Jack finally recognizes the face—it’s the chef from the hotel. Jack fumbles for the man’s name. “It’s Andy, isn’t it? You work at the hotel, don’t you? What are you playing at, you daft bugger?”

  “It’s you doing all the playing around. What about Connie? She’s in a right mess because of you. She’s less than half your age, you dirty bugger. What sort of twisted bastard gets a young lass into bed and then drops her like a hot cake the next day?”

  “Bugger off. It’s none of your business.”

  “I’ve made it my business now. You’re a miserable bastard. Once you’d got what you wanted from Connie you couldn’t even remember her name. You haven’t even got the guts to tell her to her face. She’s been waiting all night for you to turn up.”

  “It’s nothing to do with you. Connie was keen enough. I can’t remember hearing her complain.”

  Andy throws another punch at Jack’s face. This time his fist connects with Jack’s right temple and there is a thud as the blow lands. Jack raises his hand to the right side of his face, the skin around his eye humming with pain. Finally he is roused to retaliate. Jack may be a good ten years older than the chef and a damn sight less agile, but he’s powerfully built. He swings a punch to the man’s jaw and follows it with a c
ut to the stomach as the chef falls. It is all over very quickly. Looking down at the figure of the chef sprawled across the promenade, Jack resists the urge to stick his boot in the man’s ribs. He has been seen—there’s a small crowd gathered across the other side of the road and the sound of a whistle in the distance. Jack breaks into a run, dodging down the nearest side street and nearly knocking over a couple locked in beery union in the process. He turns sharp left down a cobbled back alleyway punctuated by dustbins and littered with discarded refuse. Jack covers some distance before stopping to catch his breath. The police are streets behind him and it’s hardly likely that the chef will press charges—not if he wants to hang on to his job at the hotel. Jack slows to walking pace and considers his options. It’s well past midnight. Thank God he’s remembered to take the front-door key. He can feel the right side of his face swelling up, now he’s stopped to catch his breath. There’s nothing for it. He’ll have to let himself in quietly and hope no one sees him.

  19

  The Big Wheel

  If you go to a big holiday resort you might see a Big Wheel. They’re awfully important, they make a lot of noise and they’re known to ordinary people for miles around. But do remember, children, a Big Wheel can be dangerous and there’s no such thing as a free ride! Score 50 points for spotting a big mover.

  Blackpool, Friday, July 15, 1959

  “I hope your kids aren’t hungry! You’re tied on for a fair wait this morning, Ruth.” Following their heart-to-heart yesterday Florrie now regards Ruth as an intimate friend. She has been waiting with growing impatience for the Singleton family to come down for breakfast. Now that they have arrived she is anxious to share the gossip.

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s Andy. You know, the chef. He hasn’t come in this morning and the manager has had to step in. We’ve been waiting ages and Connie has only just taken our order. You’d think they’d be better staffed midseason. You’ve got to get what cereal you want from that table over there. By the left, your Jack looks as if he’s been through the mill. Picked up a right shiner there, hasn’t he?”