The Palace of Strange Girls

by Sallie Day

  “It’s nothing. Just a bump,” Ruth says.

  “Been a bit busy with your fists, have you, Jack?” Florrie bellows over Ruth’s head.

  Jack gives her the nearest he can get to a smile.

  “I’d hate to see what state the other bloke is in,” Florrie adds. She winks and nudges Fred, from whom she’s already had the whole story.

  Fred had been drinking late when Jack had walked past the entrance to the hotel bar. When Fred had seen the state Jack was in he’d pulled him into the bar, sat him down in the corner and ordered a brandy. The bar steward had looked none too pleased, the Belvedere has strict rules. Residents wishing to take advantage of the hotel bar must be properly attired. Fred had ignored the barman’s objections and grabbed a bar towel to wipe the worst of the blood off his face. Fred had thought that the steward was going to throw them out, but the wound had looked worse than it was. Jack had said that he’d lost his footing on the prom and he’d given the steward such a look that the lad had pulled down the shutters on the bar and switched off the lights, leaving Fred and Jack to nurse their drinks in the semidarkness. Fred had recounted the tale to Florrie, who’d pressed for all the lurid details. But Fred had said there weren’t any—looking back, it hadn’t been funny at all. He’d seen a despair in Jack’s face that was even deeper than his own.

  This morning he catches Jack’s eye and nods his support before turning to Florrie and muttering, “Drop it, Flo. Let the man eat his breakfast in peace.”

  Connie breezes up to the Singleton table and lifts an impertinent eyebrow. She doesn’t even bother to write down their order when Ruth gives it. Helen looks up and smiles at Connie, but the waitress looks away. When she brings the Full English, Connie virtually throws the hot plate down in front of Jack and, passing behind him, mutters, “Hope it bloody chokes you.”

  Ruth gives no indication that she has heard the comment. Indeed, any bystander would find it difficult to believe that Mrs. Singleton is anything less than completely satisfied with the service.

  Five minutes later Connie appears again with a tea tray complete with teapot, hot water, sugar and milk. This too is slammed on the table with the words, “Manager apologizes for the delay. Chef was beaten up last night. In case you didn’t know. He’s off work today with his hand in plaster.”

  Jack and Ruth studiedly ignore the information and continue breakfast in silence. Under normal circumstances Ruth would be prompted to complain about the lukewarm tea but she has put two and two together. Whatever Jack was up to last night, it has resulted in the chef needing hospital treatment.

  “Now, don’t you worry about your girls, Ruth,” Florrie says. “We’ll keep an eye on them. Our Alan reckons they’d enjoy a walk on the pier, depending on the weather, of course. Though it looks to have fined up after all that rain yesterday.”

  Ruth has been listening with mounting horror. At last she can stand it no longer and interrupts Florrie’s flow. “I don’t let the girls on the pier. It’s too rough and there’s nothing for them to do there anyway.” Florrie looks scandalized and opens her mouth to protest but Ruth carries on. “I’ve told the girls to stay in the hotel. Helen has plenty of postcards to write while Elizabeth is having her nap.”

  Jack starts the minute they leave the dining room. “I can’t say I’m keen on St. Anne’s. It’ll mean getting a tram to Squires Gate and then walking. I don’t know why you have to see Cora anyway. You can see her any day of the week at home. Why don’t we forget about it and just have a couple of hours to ourselves?”

  “After last night I don’t think you’re in any position to complain about anything. From what that silly waitress said, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the chef who gave you a black eye.”

  “I told you what happened. It was nothing to do with the chef. Dougie got into a fight. He was outnumbered. I stepped in to help him, that’s all.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. We’re going. It’s all settled. Cora invited us.”

  “Where is the bloomin’ place, anyway?”

  “It’s at the far end of St. Anne’s. Right by the golf links.”

  “Well, it’d have to be, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t think Ronald plays that much.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t. Too much like hard work. No, he’ll be sat in the clubhouse doing business with all the other bastards with funny handshakes.” Ruth gives Jack a warning look. She doesn’t hold with swearing—it’s a bad example to set for the girls. But Jack knows Ronald Lloyd well enough to avoid him if at all possible. “You should have seen him at infant school. He thought he was the Big Wheel even then.”

  Ruth ignores him and continues, “Cora says the hotel does afternoon tea in the conservatory. Cream cakes baked fresh every day and fancy sandwiches. And there’s music. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’m surprised you asked Mrs. Clegg to look after the girls. I’d have thought that was the last thing you’d want.”

  “I’ve told Helen to stay in the hotel and ignore whatever Florrie Clegg says. They’ll be all right. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable taking a couple of hours off from looking after the girls. After all, Helen is sixteen, Jack. She’s old enough to keep her eye on Elizabeth. We’ll take the girls out this morning. It doesn’t look like rain.”

  Since it is the last day of the holiday, Jack decides to treat the family to a trip up the Tower. Ruth has no head for heights and spends the morning reading the paper on the prom. Jack glances at Beth as they are queuing for tickets. What has got into her? She is chattering ten to the dozen and skipping from foot to foot. She’s a different child. Jack reckons it must be taking Gunner for a walk yesterday that has been the turning point. Victor mentioned it to him and Jack was at pains to keep the news from Ruth. Heaven knows what a fuss there’d be if Ruth found out that Beth had been wandering the streets with a dog. When Jack asked Beth about her walk she said that she’d gone to see Tiger Woman and she’d had a hot dog, and she was going to be a Tiger Woman when she grew up. Jack had retied the ribbon in her hair and told her that she was the best storyteller he’d ever heard.

  When they reach the top of the Tower Beth looks down and tries to spot her mother but it’s impossible. She could be any one of the thousands of dark specks swarming along the promenade below. From this height the trams crawling along the prom and the horse-drawn landaus look like dolly mixtures. A ragged fringe of bathers hugs the water’s edge, advancing and retreating with the waves, and the sea stretches long and wide like a great blue flag rippling in the breeze. Jack urges Beth to take big breaths of the fresh air. He demonstrates, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chest, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. Beth looks up at him in admiration. He’s like a giant. No matter how cold it gets up the Tower the huge hand that safely holds hers is always warm.

  Beth’s view is limited to the sight of rusty brown ironwork until Jack lifts her and takes her on a tour of the viewing platform, pointing out all the distant coastlines. “That’s the Westmorland Fells, the start of the Lake District, and that’s Scotland,” he says, pointing north.

  “How far away is it?” Beth asks.

  “The Lake District? About forty miles, as the crow flies.”

  “How does a crow fly?”

  “Like this,” Helen says, flapping her arms.

  Jack and Beth both laugh, ignoring the people who have turned to stare.

  “So that must be Ireland,” Helen says, pointing west.

  “Yes, and the Isle of Man. And there, behind all the mist, is north Wales.”

  Helen follows her dad’s pointing finger—all these places she’s never been. Helen sighs and turns away.

  The fresh air has given everyone an appetite. The Singletons have dinner in a café, and make their way back to the hotel for a wash and change. The whole family is in high spirits; even Ruth and Helen appear to have reached a truce.

  It’s two o’clock before Jack and Ruth set off for St. Anne’s. T
here’s a queue for the tram, and although this isn’t unusual in Blackpool at the height of the season, there’s still a sense of expectation in the crowd. When the bloke at the head of the queue announces, “It’s comin’!” the whole crowd murmurs and leans forward across the tracks to catch its first glimpse of the tram. It’s the “Blackpool Belle,” a standard, run-of-the-mill olive and yellow tram transformed into a replica of a Mississippi paddle steamer complete with wheel, or at least the closest any weaver this side of the Atlantic is going to get to one. Seeing the surge of the crowd when the doors open, Jack takes Ruth’s arm and they step back and wait.

  The next tram goes the long way round. Only half full, it threads its way inland through a long sprawl of redbrick semis, built before the war. To Ruth’s eye, familiar only with endless streets of modest terraced houses, these semis look palatial. The patterned brickwork carries with it a sense of solid authority. The entrances are flanked by redbrick pillars topped with huge cream balls carved with the house name. Heavy wrought-iron gates open on to wide graveled drives. The gardens consist of verdant lawns fringed by ornamental borders filled with roses. These semis, with their coach lights and fancily carved barge boards, exude a private superiority from their high trimmed hedges to their polished and leaded windows that flash like diamonds against the white paintwork. And no two are exactly the same. Not like terraced houses where you could go in any one and find your way blindfold into the scullery or up to the attic. Residents of St. Anne’s wouldn’t know what a donkey stone was if it hit them in the face.

  The Links Hotel is heralded by a string of company flags that line the drive leading to the front entrance. It’s an impressive sight. Jack and Ruth step through the entrance into a cool reception area that’s all Ionic columns. Their ears are assaulted by the sound of violins from loudspeakers hidden behind gigantic flower arrangements. They approach a reception desk that is the size of Ruth’s kitchen at home and, having given their names, a supercilious bellboy in green and gold livery escorts them through to a rambling Edwardian conservatory complete with buttonback couches and wrought-iron tables.

  Cora spots them as soon as they walk in and waves them over. She is heavily made up, powder lies thickly on her cheeks and there is a gash of bright red lipstick across her mouth. She looks unsteady in her white canvas wedge shoes as she stands up to greet them. Cora is wearing a dramatically tight-waisted dress with a full red polka-dot skirt. The white feathers on her cocktail hat waft in the air as she embraces Ruth. Sunglasses cover her eyes but, as ever, her smile is sufficient to disarm the most critical look. Ronald, every inch the assistant bank manager, lounges back in his chair with a proprietorial air, as if the whole building belongs to him. Ronald has dark-brown hair that is parted thickly on the left and held in place by generous amounts of hair oil. His wide face and blunt nose distract attention away from small blue eyes that constantly shift, taking in everything. His body gives every indication of having escaped the worst deprivations of the postwar economy. He is a man writ large. He exudes from the open pores of his skin an aura of complacent wealth, of gravitas in a world of lesser mortals. His feet alone have resisted the onslaught of middle-aged expansion. They remain small, dainty to the point of absurdity, and encased in diamond-patterned golfing socks and black lace-up shoes.

  “Look who’s here, Ronnie. It’s Ruth and Jack. I told you I’d invited them over.”

  Ronald gives Ruth a thick-lipped smile that disappears from his mouth the moment it arrives. He fails to acknowledge Jack other than by pointing to the seats opposite and indicating the visitors should sit. This gesture never fails to intimidate both social inferiors and bank customers called in to explain their overdrafts. Jack, alive to Ronald’s calculated superiority, ignores the indicated seating and chooses instead to sit at the other side of Cora.

  Cora softens at his approach, pats his knee and says, “Did you find the hotel OK, Jack? I’m afraid the directions I gave Ruth were a bit vague. I’m not a driver, you see. I don’t really pay much attention to the roads.”

  “We were fine,” Jack replies, folding his arms. “We came over by tram.”

  “Why, that’ll have dropped you some distance away,” Ronald smirks.

  “Yes,” Ruth concedes, “but it was a nice walk. We wouldn’t have seen the avenue of limes… well, not properly, if we’d come by car. The gardens here are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “It took us half the time to get here that it usually does,” Ronald tells Jack, “what with my new Rover. There’s some real power under the bonnet. And the acceleration—nought to sixty in no time. You don’t drive, do you, Jack?” Jack opens his mouth to say that he drove during the war, but Ronald breezily continues, “Still, Cora tells me you’re on the waiting list for a secondhand car. A Ford Popular, is it? Small but cheap to run. Thirty brake horsepower. You’ll not have to let him get carried away with the speed, Ruth. Anyway, let me order something. What would you want, Ruth? Cora has been drinking pink gin—can I order one for you?”

  Ruth shakes her head. “No, thank you, Ronald. A cup of tea would be nice though.”

  Ruth had told Cora about the car (£390 + tax) in the strictest confidence. About how excited Jack was. About it having chrome bumpers and hubcaps. And a spare wheel and even a boot. Jack looks irritated already and they’ve not been there five minutes.

  “And you, Jack?”

  “Tea is fine. I make a point of not drinking during the day.”

  Ronald raises a lazy paw. A steward hurries up, pad and pencil at the ready, and is dispatched with an order for a pink gin, a whisky sour and a pot of tea for two. Ronald is a heavy tipper. But only in public. Women who weekly provide private services of a personal nature never see this beneficent side of Mr. Lloyd.

  “Do any gardening, Jack?” Ronald asks.

  “No. Not really.”

  “Oh, you should. I find it very relaxing. It’s the coming thing. You wouldn’t recognize The Hallows now. Shrubbery, bedding schemes, herbaceous borders—I’ve ditched the lot. They’re very old hat nowadays. Got a man in to lay the concrete. He made me laugh. Wanted paying in advance, didn’t he, Cora?” Cora nods dutifully. “In case I changed my mind once the concrete was down. No fear of that I told him. I left the beech hedge in though—I don’t mind forking out for a new-look garden but I’m blowed if I’ll have passersby gawping. I like my privacy. Not that there’s been much of that since the railings went to the war effort. Once I’d got rid of the flowers I got my gardener to lay a lawn along the front. It’s immaculate, even though I say it myself. Best lawn I’ve ever seen. Of course, it takes a lot of care to get it to that standard. My man uses sulphate of ammonia for weeds and iron sulphate for the moss—all mixed with sand, of course. You need a good dose of chemicals to get a lawn looking as good as mine. And plenty of DDT—best pesticide there is. Gardener watched all the concrete being put down at the back and said, ‘You’ll be putting me out of a job, Mr. Lloyd; there’ll be no flowers to look after at this rate.’ But he changed his tune when I put in the raised beds and concrete pots. A block of French yellow marigolds just like the ones we saw at the latest Ideal Homes Exhibition, all crammed tight between the concrete walls, and another block of roses, twelve foot by six, at right angles to it. I don’t hold with a mishmash of different varieties—you don’t get the same uniform color. All the paths are solid concrete, of course—you can walk round my garden all day and not get a bit of soil on your shoes. Cora’s delighted. We’re planning a garden party next week to show it all off. I don’t suppose you have much of a garden where you are, Jack?”

  “No.”

  “Still, Cora tells me that you have one of those allotments across the road from where you live. How convenient. I bet you escape out there every Saturday to read your newspaper. You run a couple of dozen hens on the allotment, don’t you? They’ll be keeping you busy, I expect.”

  Jack barely nods. The waiter arrives with afternoon tea and performs a series of deft moves in order t
o fit the feast on the table.

  “Oh, I should let Ruth be mother,” Ronald says when Cora reaches for the teapot. “I’d say she was altogether better qualified, wouldn’t you?”

  There is an uneasy silence. Cora pushes her sunglasses further up the bridge of her nose and says in a voice that is brittle enough to break, “I’ll bet the girls are enjoying Blackpool, aren’t they? We’ve been lucky with the weather, haven’t we? You’re staying at the Belvedere, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s not like this.”

  Jack leans forward and interrupts. “It’s good enough,” he says, shooting Ruth a glance.

  “Well, yes,” Ruth agrees, “but this looks to be a lovely hotel.”

  “This place?” Ronald asks, his tone incredulous. “It isn’t a patch on our usual hotel. But there again, this isn’t the Costa Brava, is it? I wish the bank could afford to give me a Wakes Week every year, but we’re too busy. It’s pure chance that I managed to get these days off.”

  Jack leans back in his chair, folds his arms and peers up at the glass roof. There’s a four-piece string quartet started up somewhere and the piano accompaniment isn’t all it should be. Jack has an ear for music and the occasional flat note from the piano makes him wince. That and the proximity of Ronald bloody Lloyd is enough to make him sick. Jack and Cora had knocked around together a lot before the war. He liked the way her hair curled and fell through his fingers, the perfume she wore that made her smell of wild violets. Never on time, daft as a brush, hopelessly clumsy, Cora had been the perfect complement to Jack. He’d be up on the stage blowing his trombone and she’d be down on the dance floor with all comers. It was only flirting, but Jack had ended up punching one or two of the more persistent bastards. His eye strays across to Cora but she’s difficult to decipher—especially behind those sunglasses.