The Palace of Strange Girls (36 page)

“The nerve of that woman,” Ruth says, but when she looks up she sees that Cora is laughing, and despite her best efforts,
Ruth finds herself laughing as well.

“Oh, Ruth. I’ve missed seeing you. I’m so sorry about those things I said. I must have been mistaken. I never would have said
anything if I’d thought.”

“It’s all right, Cora.”

“I was wrong.”

“No, really, it’s all right. I’ve missed you too. I could have done with your help when we moved house.”

“Oh! So you finally bought one of the semis! It must have been after I left. His case comes up in February, you know.”

“Jack said there were rumors that Ronald had been arrested. What has he done?”

“Only beaten up one of the ladies he pays for sex. If he’d done it on Liverpool Road one of his Masonic friends would have
covered it up for him, but the stupid fool was up in Scotland at one of those fancy golf tournaments. The poor woman was in
a right mess when he’d finished with her—she’d got concussion and a broken jaw. And all the usual bruising, of course. Quite
a dab hand at bruising, my husband.”

“So when did you leave?”

“The minute I found out. He’d been hoping to keep it all quiet. The case is to be heard in Glasgow. I took the liberty of
telling his area manager before I left. Ronnie isn’t ‘on extended leave.’ He’s finished as far as the bank is concerned.”

“So where are you living?”

“Here. This is a live-in job. I have the attic room right at the top. You’ll have seen it. It’s the one with the circular
window. I never thought I’d like it as much as I do. The rest of the staff are friendly and I don’t mind the hours. There’s
nothing better than hard work to keep you from feeling sorry for yourself. Look, can you spare a minute? If you can push your
way past the bloomin’ Christmas tree we can have a chat in the back out of sight of the manager.”

Ruth slides past the tree and into the dingy cloakroom.

“Here.” Cora grasps her hand. “You sit on this bench, I won’t be a minute.”

Ruth waits in the semidarkness until Cora reappears with a drink in each hand. “Go on,” she says, handing Ruth a glass. “It’s
only fruit punch.” The two friends sit side by side and sip the ruby-colored liquid. “Did you say Helen had finished at Blanche’s?”

“Yes. When we got back from holiday she suddenly announced that she wanted to go to university.”

“That’s a change round, isn’t it? She’ll have to do her A-Levels. I thought she was determined to leave.”

“She was. But she met this lad on holiday and now she spends every Saturday in Manchester, campaigning for this CND.”

“CN what?”

“D. It’s the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. There’s a group that’s active at Manchester University. She must have made
some friends there because there’s some lad called Adrian who rings every Friday to let her know what’s on at the weekend.
I said to Jack it’s a good job we’ve got a phone—otherwise how would our eldest daughter get on with overthrowing the government?”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so. Whatever it is she’s up to in Manchester it doesn’t require fancy dresses and high heels. Jack bought
her a beautiful white layered petticoat during the holiday, but I’ve not seen her in it once since we came back. She’s up
and down in jeans and a duffel coat.”

“It’s only lads who wear duffel coats.”

“I’ve let her grow her hair—I thought if I made her have it cut short again, no one would believe she was a girl. These friends
at the university seem to have some pretty odd ideas. When I started asking her about this lad, Adrian, she got mad. She insists
he’s just a friend.”

“And is he?”

“Looks like it. Anyway, I’m not complaining. She’s too young for a proper boyfriend.”

“She’s sixteen, Ruth.”

“She’s nearly two years of A-Levels to finish.”

“And how are things with Jack?”

Ruth shrugs and rubs the rim of the glass with her finger. “He’s busy at work since he was made manager. He’s a hard worker,
you can’t fault him on that.”

“No, you’re right there. But you don’t sound too happy, Ruth.”

“I’m happy enough. I get a lot of pleasure from buying for the house. I’ve got a set of Venetian blinds on order that’ll finish
off the dining room. I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do with the lounge. We’re not like some couples, arguing all
the time. We’re doing the best that we can for the girls. You can’t expect romance after all these years. It’s like everything
else—you’ve got to compromise. That’s what living with someone boils down to in the end, isn’t it? After all the fireworks,
I mean.”

“I don’t know, Ruth. I never got past the firework stage with Ronnie, did I?”

Outside there’s the sound of someone ringing the reception desk bell with increasing impatience, followed by that of a coin
rapping on the counter. Cora lifts her finger to her lips. “Sh-h-h,” she says. “It’ll be Irene Sykes again.”

The Sparrow Hawk’s main function room is heavy with Christmas decorations—the tasteful swags of fir pinned to the picture
rails with clusters of holly and mistletoe in the lobby give way to paper chains, lanterns and tissue bells in the ballroom.
There’s a dance band playing seasonal tunes at the far end of the room. Blackburn’s answer to Bing Crosby has just finished
“White Christmas” and has paused to allow the assembled party-goers the opportunity to clap. A ripple of halfhearted applause
follows.

Despite the closure of Portsmouth and Waterfoot Mills, the room is crowded with around thirty employees and their wives, all
dressed up to the nines. Irene Sykes, decked out in a midnight-blue shift dress with heavy gold embroidery, has caused a stir.
It’s apparent from across the room that she’s opted for one of the “new fabrics” instead of traditional cotton velvet. The
shiny fabric and gaudy gold embroidery constitute open rebellion. But not all the assembled managers are offended by her appearance.
Mrs. Sykes is wearing a neckline that does more than merely hint at her legendary breasts and the dress itself ends above
the knee. As a result there’s an unsightly scuffle among the younger men as to who can coax her into one of the alcoves. Meanwhile
Harry Sykes is becoming increasingly belligerent as the night wears on. Having failed to secure the manager’s job at Prospect
mill, he considers he has nothing left to lose. He has spent the last hour “relaxing” at the bar and now he’s in search of
a sympathetic audience. Dougie Fairbrother has the misfortune to be passing.

“Well! If it isn’t the blushing bridegroom! Little Dougie Fairbrother, as I live and breathe. Not divorced a year and ready
to marry again. You’re a bugger for punishment. Here,” Harry says, liberating a couple of whiskies from a passing waiter,
“get that down your neck. That’ll put lead in your pencil!”

“I’ve got a drink waitin’, thanks, Harry.”

“I mean a proper drink, none of that filthy punch they lay on every year. Of course, you aren’t to know that, are you? This’ll
be your first time. First invitation to the social event of the year—Fosters’ Christmas bash. It’s a once-a-year opportunity
to grovel at the feet of the famous Foster brothers. Say thanks very much for keeping the mill open, sir. Very grateful, I’m
sure. And here you are, Dougie, living proof of the Foster dictum—jobs for the boys. Jack Singleton steps out of the foreman’s
job and you step straight in.”

Dougie has twisted out of Harry’s bearlike embrace. “I only got the job because Tapper turned it down.”

“I believe you. I believe you! But how did Jack land the manager’s job, eh? Who suggested that they switch the weaving shed
at Alexandria over to shifts? Jack Singleton, that’s who.”

“The way I heard it was that it was the only way they could continue running the mill.”

“Tell me another! It was Jack bloody Singleton’s suggestion. I was there. I heard him. It was him persuaded them to cut my
job in half. They’ve brought in a night shift manager. He lets his weavers leave the looms in a right state. I spend half
my mornings chasing up broken pegs and replacement spindles. Well, I’ve had enough. I’m finished. Come the New Year I’m off.
I was trained on Dobby looms producing top-quality fancy work. If I can’t get work here, I’ll go abroad. Germany’s crying
out for textile specialists.”

When Harry turns to grab another pint from a passing bar steward Dougie quickly steps away. He has seen Irene tucked away
in the alcove with a couple of supervisors from Bank Mill and reckons there’s trouble brewing.

This being Dougie’s first time at the mill party he’s had to hire a dress suit for the occasion. The jacket is a tad too long
and the trousers are a bit tight at the waist, but with his fiancée’s help he’s managed to struggle into the outfit. The scarlet
cummerbund was abandoned early on and is still lying across his bed at home, the black shoes crippled him so he’s had to revert
to his brown slip-ons, and his bow tie fastens at the back with a bit of elastic, but none of this really matters. Since his
recent engagement the world is altogether a brighter place for Dougie. Having escaped the unwanted attentions of Harry Sykes,
he makes his way back across the room and finds his fiancée chatting to Jack. “Hello, love. Jack has got me an orange and
there’s a pint for you.”

Jack raises his drink and toasts them both. “Here’s to the happy couple. All the best to both of you. Not long now before
the wedding, is it?”

“Next Saturday and it can’t come soon enough,” Dougie says.

His fiancée is a couple of inches shorter than Dougie and almost as wide. She is dressed in a cream cotton dress with a busy
floral pattern, which ties at the neck with a large soft bow. A heavily perfumed crimson tea rose pinned to her shoulder matches
her lipstick. She is all fine powder and fragrance.

“Would you like to sit down with that drink?” Dougie asks, his hand resting lightly in the small of her back. “I’ll be over
in a minute. I just want a word with Jack.”

Both men watch as she makes her way over to the seating near the finger buffet.

“Another week and she’ll be Mrs. Fairbrother,” Dougie says. “I can’t believe I’ve found a woman like her. She’s the best thing
that’s happened to me, Jack. I’d seen her around, of course, but I never thought she’d spend time with me. You should have
come to the stag party! We made a weekend of it in Blackpool.”

“I’m sorry. I’m too busy chasing my tail at the moment with all the new machinery.”

“Thank God for Tapper. He’s got the measure of the new system with no problem at all. He’s done some mumbling about it not
being a skilled job anymore since the weaving is all automatic, but he’s kept things moving all the same. Still, he enjoyed
himself at the Belvedere—got in a fight the first night, but after he’d got that out of the way he was downright docile.”

“It was your Doug who arranged it, wasn’t it?”

“Aye. He’d heard that they were doing stag nights there.”

“I was surprised when I heard it was the Belvedere you’d booked. I’ve known Victor since the war.”

“Oh no, he’s gone. It’s a new manager now. The bloke who’s taken over is still in his twenties. They’re doing all sorts of
coach trips and cut-price weekends. There’s been a lot of interest—it’s a lot faster to get there on the train with the new
diesel engines. Time your trains right and it’s close enough for a good night out.”

“Aye, I suppose so. It’s changing like everything else.”

“They’d a postcard at hotel reception from that pal of yours.”

“Who? Victor?”

“Aye. It were a picture of a couple of donkeys in sombreros parked outside a large hotel called the New Belvedere. It looked
for all the world like Blackpool front, but it were from somewhere in Spain. He’d signed it on the back. I cracked out laughing
when I read it—‘All the best from Victor and Connie.’ Wasn’t Connie that waitress you knew?”

“Aye,” Jack replies uneasily.

“Gets around, don’t she? You’ve got to give her that. And how are things with the other lass? Eleni.”

Jack looks round to see who’s listening before he replies. “I’ve written back—sent the lad a few quid for Christmas. I don’t
see anything wrong in that. He’s as much mine as the girls are. I’ve had a word with my dad.”

“How did the old man take the news?”

“He did a fair bit of shouting. Told me he didn’t care if the lad was in Timbuktu, I still had a responsibility to him and
Eleni. She writes every week or so. I pick the letter up when I see the old man on a Tuesday.”

“And what about Ruth?”

“Ruth’s well looked after. She’s got what she wanted. I wasn’t for selling our old terrace but she got her own way in the
finish. I don’t think she’s really wanted me for a long time. There were a rough few weeks in the summer after she heard I’d
been spotted with a lass. I did try to tell her about Eleni a month ago but she turned away, wouldn’t listen. Told me whatever
it was, this time she didn’t want to know.”

Jack shrugs and Dougie shakes his head. Together they raise their glasses.

“Well, I’ll be glad to see the back of the fifties. Here’s to 1960! All the best, Jack.”

“All the best, Dougie.”

It is a Saturday like any other. Helen is off campaigning in Manchester and Ruth is out shopping as usual. The house is silent
in a way that the old terrace on St. Cuthbert’s Street never was. Moorlands has been finished with fitted carpets so the rooms
no longer echo, but still there’s a sensation of emptiness. Jack sits down and polishes the family’s shoes under the pitiless
glare of a state-of-the-art strip light. This kitchen is bigger but not as cozy as the one in their old terrace. Central heating
and clean white radiators have replaced the once familiar open fire and rumbling back boiler.

Jack avoids sitting on the white tubular steel chairs with yellow wipe-clean seats and instead perches on his old wooden shoe-cleaning
box. It was cobbled together years ago from old planks liberated from his father’s allotment. Ruth urged him to “lose it”
when they moved house, but Jack refused. The shoebox belongs to him, you wouldn’t catch Ruth volunteering to clean the family’s
shoes: it’s his job; always has been, since the day they got married. Jack is content to do the shoes, he finds it therapeutic.
There’s a comfort in setting time aside once a week to make things right, to polish over the evidence of casual scrapes, brush
away mud garnered from footpaths and dust from gutters, to restore the shine on scuffed shoes. Whether the damage is collateral
or direct, visible or hidden, Jack has learned that some damage defies repair—however skilled the hand that tries. As Nibs
would have it, some things can’t be saved.