The Palace of Strange Girls (18 page)

“Do you work?” Florrie asks, moving over to sit with Ruth and motioning to Connie for a fresh pot of tea.

“No. I don’t have time to work. I’m too busy running the house,” Ruth replies.

“But what is there to do that would take you all day?” Florrie notes the look of disapproval on Ruth’s face and corrects herself:
“I mean, what do you do when you’ve finished the housework?” In Florrie’s world running a house doesn’t qualify as work. If
it qualifies as a job at all, it’s what you rush through in a morning before going out to work and finish off last thing at
night if it won’t wait until tomorrow.

“I look for some more to do,” Ruth replies. “I clean my windows every week, inside and out.”

“It would be a right waste of time cleaning windows down where we live. Scotley’s mill chimney puts paid to clean windows
and it doesn’t do much for your washing either. Have you never worked?”

“I used to work as a clerk at the town hall, but that finished when I got married.”

“That’s a shame—it’s just the time when you need a bit of extra money when you’re setting up home, like.”

“When Jack came back from service overseas all he wanted was to settle down and have a family. He likes a well-run house.
It’s what a man needs when he’s busy at work.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve been a spinner at Lane End Mill since I left school.”

“Doesn’t your husband object if there’s no meal waiting for him when he gets home?”

“Does he heck. I’d like to see him object. I can’t be in two places at once. It’s money in his pocket if I’m earning. Anyway,
I don’t know that it makes that much difference, in the long run.”

“What?”

“Staying at home and looking after the house. I mean, are kids any better for it? My lads stay with Fred’s mother and they
don’t seem any the worse for it, I must say.”

Ruth casts a sour glance at the state of the twins’ socks. That alone is argument enough for staying at home and being a proper
mother. Ruth wouldn’t mop her step with those socks. The lad, Red Hawk, is sliding across the varnished floorboards at the
edge of the room. His socks will be in holes as well before the week is out, let alone the dangers of splinters in his feet.
Ruth can’t bear to watch.

“It’s odd, isn’t it,” Florrie continues, “how different folk are. I mean, my old dad did everything at home. My mother had
eleven kids, nine surviving, and she hadn’t a single varicose vein in her legs up to the day she died. I swear she had hands
like a lady.” Florrie surveys her own worn and calloused hands. “She was a one, my mother. I’ve seen her sit in a rocking
chair all day long while my dad set to with the washing and stripping the beds. He’d even black-lead the stove. She was the
boss of him and no mistake. I never heard her give him a kind word. I wouldn’t reckon my chances of getting away with that
with my Fred. You’ll not catch him picking up a duster. Still, I don’t do a lot of dusting myself. It only goes up in the
air and lands somewhere else, doesn’t it?”

Ruth knows full well that if you dust properly—using a damp cloth after vacuuming and moving methodically from top to bottom—you
can shift the dust completely.

“Anyway,” Florrie continues, “Fred’s mother is a real gem. She looks after the lads Monday to Friday and I’ve never had a
wrong word with her in all the years me and Fred have been married. I take it you’ve not been so fortunate with your in-laws,
Ruth?”

“No.”

“Some of them are buggers, aren’t they?”

“I’ve stopped out of the way.”

“How do you mean?” Florrie’s face is full of sympathetic concern.

“I used to get out of the way when Jack’s parents came over,” Ruth confesses. “I’d make sure I’d left the house immaculate—I’d
dust everywhere, polish the cooker. I’d clean the windows even though they never came until after dark when the curtains were
shut. I knew well enough that his mother would be having a good poke around. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of finding
anything wrong.”

“But it doesn’t upset you now, does it?”

“I suppose not. They don’t come anymore. His mother died last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Florrie has such a way with her. A way of making whoever she’s speaking to feel as if she’s on their side. Her whole manner
encourages confidences. Her expression is soft, her look uncritical, her smile engaging. Her broad face glows with feminine
understanding. Despite her natural reserve Ruth finds herself drawn to the woman.

The two women lift their cups and take a sip of tea.

“My, but he’s a grand-looking chap, your Jack. Don’t you think he has a look of Charlton Heston? We took the lads to see
Ben-Hur
last night and the minute he came on screen I said to Fred, ‘Now, who does he remind you of?’”

Ruth is not unaware of the attention Jack provokes, but she’s learned to live with it. She even joins in when Florrie laughs.

“How did you and Jack meet?”

“We went to the same Sunday School. He didn’t attend regularly, but I could tell the minute I walked in the church when he
was there. Wherever Jack was there was always plenty of noise, the sound of people having a good time. It was a nightmare
trying to calm the children down before the start of church. It didn’t matter whether I was teaching about the commandments
or the feeding of the five thousand, Jack would be pulling faces, or horsing around at the back of the class. The only time
I ever got his attention was when I told the story of Daniel in the lion’s den. He listened then.”

“Lads! They’re a nightmare, aren’t they?”

“I couldn’t believe it when Reverend Ryecroft asked him to take one or two of the Sunday classes when I was busy with the
Church Committee. I remember sitting in church listening for the uproar. But it was silent as the grave. Not a muff. When
I went to the schoolroom at the end of church, the children filed out like little angels. It was a bit before I cottoned on.
His Sunday School classes were packed to the gills because he’d abandoned the Bible in favor of cowboy stories. When I complained
he switched to the slaughter of the innocents. With embellishments. There was nothing I could do about it. And it wasn’t just
church. I’d see him on Trafalgar Road while I was hurrying off to a church wardens’ meeting. He’d have some girl on his arm,
or he’d be sat on a bench in Victoria Park holding forth, legs at full stretch, showing off the socks his mother used to knit.
He was working at Bank Mill then.”

“Is he still there?”

“No. Foster Brothers took him on before the war.”

“My Fred used to work for Edmondson’s until they shut down last month. Out on his ear with nothing after twenty years. They
promised him the earth if he’d go back to his old job after the war and he went. Despite the fact he could have earned more
elsewhere. When I kick up about it Fred shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘Florrie, they don’t pay you for loyalty.’ He finished
last month and there hasn’t been a whiff of a job since. He’s tried all over but there’s nothing. Nobody is even sure nowadays
if they’ll still be in work at the end of the week. It’s a bloomin’ good job I’m working—otherwise we’d be in a right mess
trying to make ends meet on the dole. I’m sick to death of making do. There’s never enough money for everything, is there?”

Ruth nods in agreement despite her own firmly held opinion on the value of thrift. She could give Florrie a whole series of
money-saving tips and ways to stretch a limited budget, but she doubts that the attempt would meet with much success. Ruth
has identified Florrie as one of those people who lead their lives with no thought for tomorrow, they spend as fast as they
get, the sort of people who are out enjoying themselves at the weekend and penniless by the following Friday. In short, the
sort of people, like her parents, who end up in a rented house on Bird Street.

“Well,” Ruth says, “maybe there’ll be something for your husband when you get back. There are always a few workers who retire
at Wakes Week.”

“Yes, isn’t that funny? A gypsy told me today that I was going to come into some money. Maybe she was right! Me and Fred were
walking up to the Tower when he spotted her tent and paid for me to go in and see her. We spent the rest of the day laughing—she
said I was going to have another baby. Fred said, ‘Well, we’ll give it a good try!’ You should go and see her, Ruth. She’s
a right laugh.”

“I don’t think there’s anything funny about cheating decent working people out of their money with a load of rubbish. Thieves
and liars the lot of them.”

Ruth’s face is so red and her tone so sharp that Florrie is shocked into silence. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that
Ruth was on the verge of tears.

It is Wednesday morning and Ruth, seven and a half months pregnant, is on her hands and knees scrubbing the flags in the scullery.
The day’s work has barely started and she is already exhausted. The scullery floor is covered in soap suds that swirl the
breadth of the stones and fill up the nicks between the flags. It doesn’t matter how hot Ruth gets the water, it still turns
cold the minute it hits the flags. The Vim powder she is using scours her palms and the clefts between her fingers, leaving
her cuticles red and swollen. Scrubbing completed she is about to swill down with clean water when there is a knock at the
front door. Ruth sits back on her heels and rubs her knees before she even tries to get up. She rises at last and takes off
her heavy, sodden pinny and replaces it with her light floral waist apron. As Ruth makes her way through the kitchen Helen
stops playing with her doll and follows her mother to the front door. The family only sets foot in the front room at Christmas.
If at any point in the intervening 363 days anyone should knock on the front door, Ruth is at pains to direct them to the
backyard gate. In this way the square of green and gold carpet in the center of the room remains unmarked by the passage of
dirty footprints. Blinding sunlight floods the porch when Ruth opens the door. As a result it’s a moment or two before she
realizes that her visitor is a gypsy. Ruth automatically backs away and says, “No, thank you. Not today.”

“Bless you, missus,” the gypsy replies. “That baby you’re carrying is going to be a beautiful boy. A baby brother for your
little girl.” When Ruth hesitates the gypsy smiles, aware that the tide has finally turned her way after a morning of slammed
doors and casual abuse. “And a right bonny boy he’ll be.” The gypsy takes a step forward and adopts a pious look. “And as
God is my witness, your little boy comes with a Romany blessing.”

Ruth lets go of the door and unconsciously slides her hand over her bulging stomach. She waxes with pleasure at the pre-diction.

Meanwhile the gypsy drops the ribbons she had hoped to sell back in her basket and draws out a black-and-cream purse instead.
“Can I show you a purse, missus? It’s finest snakeskin, handmade. Look, it has space for your loose change, a pocket for stamps
and a wallet section for notes. Look at the quality of the fastenings.” The gypsy opens the purse and demonstrates the press
stud and bright metal compartment clips. “It’ll last you a lifetime, missus, quality like this. You won’t get anything like
as good elsewhere. It’s a one off. Handmade.”

But Ruth isn’t listening. She is filled with a sense of triumph. All the weight, discomfort and nauseous agony of this pregnancy
will be worth it in the end. She is carrying a son. Unwittingly she smiles, her hand open, ready to accept the purse the gypsy
proffers.

The snakeskin shines and ripples softly under her thumb. It is a foldover purse that opens with three press studs to reveal
a concertina of pockets and flaps. The first pocket is for coins, a metal clip closes the second. There’s a separate pocket
at the front of the purse for bus tickets and receipts, and a clear plastic pocket with a card for the owner’s name and address.
There’s even a zip at the back of the purse, which will easily hold her child allowance book. Ruth is impressed. The purse
is exuberant, eye-catching and wildly extravagant. Ruth is sorely tempted. She draws her eyes away from the snakeskin and
asks, “How much?”

“Four and six,” risks the gypsy.

“Four and six! There’ll be no money left to put in it!” Ruth tries unsuccessfully to hand the purse back to the gypsy.

“You can take it for four shillings with a gypsy blessing for you. Take my word for it. That purse will never be empty. You’ll
look at this purse in a few months’ time when your baby is born and thank heavens you bought it. You’re a lucky woman. Take
it! Take it for four shillings.”

Ruth hands over the four shillings. When the gypsy has gone Ruth empties the contents of her old purse into the new. She props
the shiny snakeskin purse on top of the sideboard and sighs with satisfaction. The rest of the day passes in a haze of pleasure.
She wants to shout the news from the rooftop, but taking her example from the Virgin Mary, she determines to keep the secret
in her heart and tells no one. Every time she runs her fingers over the purse in the coming weeks she smiles. She ceases to
worry about the forthcoming labor. She is confident that, when the baby is born, she will have a son. To this end she desists
from any heavy housework—the scullery floor will not see a scrubbing brush for the best part of two months, curtains will
go unwashed, windows unpolished. The burden she is carrying is too precious to risk.

Like her namesake in the Bible she is carrying a son. In the Bible Ruth names her son Obed, and Obed himself has a son called
Jesse. Neither of these names strikes Ruth Singleton as suitable—particularly Jesse, a word her father reserves for idiots
and fools. Further reading of the Book of Ruth is required before the mother-to-be discovers that the unfortunate Jesse begat
David—King David. The name resonates with her, sends a tingle up her spine. Her own David who will slay giants for her, who
will love her as fiercely as Jack loves his mother. Everything falls into place.

Bank Hall Maternity Home takes a dim view of older mothers. They are less easy to deal with, they have opinions about labor
and how it should progress, they have complications, their babies are more likely to be ill, they recover from labor slowly
and they are more demanding. Ruth is no exception. When the day arrives she resists the midwife’s suggestion that she take
some gentle exercise when the labor is slow. Ruth will not move from the bed for fear of harming the baby. She rejects both
food and drink. She refuses an enema and complains bitterly when one is administered against her will. As the labor passes
from minutes into hours she is assaulted by the fear that her son will be born dead. Fear for his safety impels her to push
away the gas and air the midwife offers when the contractions increase. Ruth lies back on the thin mattress, grits her teeth
and waits for the arrival of her son.