Putting on the Style

by Freda Lightfoot

  And Carl, at eleven years old and the man of the house, had felt duty bound to do what he could to help. Not that any of his lectures had ever penetrated an inch into his brother’s thick skull. Not then, and not now. He listened to no one, heard nothing but the crazy ideas that racketed about in his own stupid head.

  But then why should he listen to Carl when there was only a couple of years between them? Having a father around instead of a nagging brother would have done him a great deal more good. Trouble was, men didn’t ever seem to stick around very long in Belle’s life.

  Now, even at fifteen, he remained as stubborn as ever and just as unpredictable, but if he wanted Dena Dobson then Carl didn’t doubt that he would get her, in the end. Once he’d set his heart on something, Kenny wasn’t one to give up.

  And if he were honest, Carl too had thought the girl was different, a bit better than most: pretty and cheerful, out-going and really rather nice, having a hard time of it with that moaning Minnie of a mother. While all the time she was a right little minx, as bad as all the rest of her sex. Out for what she could get and nothing more.

  Carl went off to treat himself to a pint, feeling in sore need of one. Kenny still hadn’t emerged from Barry’s house by the time he’d finished it, and he wondered if he’d punched him over-hard after all, but the lad had been spoiling for a fight so had it coming to him. Maybe this would teach him to choose his girls more carefully in future.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dena seemed to hit trouble the very first day. A hand bell was rung to mark the start of every activity, whether it be bed making, baths or breakfast. No one told her this, nor that talking while such activities were carried out was entirely forbidden. Thus Carthorse found her still fast asleep when all the other girls had gone down to breakfast.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the bell? Get along with you, girl. And make your bed for goodness sake. There’s nobody to wait on you here, you know.’ Just as if she’d had three servants to do her every bidding back home in Barber’s Court.

  A person less motherly would be hard to find, in Dena’s opinion, apart from her own of course. It was constantly drummed into the girls how very worthless they were, how they were inferior to ‘real’ people who lived outside.

  ‘No wonder your mother doesn’t want you any more,’ the woman would say at the slightest transgression, which left Dena feeling even more rejected.

  That first week in the main school seemed bewildering with so much to learn. A strict routine of early morning chores, breakfast and prayers, the latter often accompanied by a long sermon which seemed to go on interminably. Dena had never been particularly religious so had breathed a sigh of relief that Miss Rogers hadn’t placed her with the nuns. Now she was beginning to wonder.

  Bath time was another nightmare with girls having to queue naked along the corridor, cold and embarrassed. Dressing gowns, apparently, were not allowed as they might get wet.

  Apart from Matron and three housemothers responsible for over a hundred girls, plus a handful of teachers who came in for a few hours each day, there was one cook and a skivvy in the kitchen. All domestic duties: cooking and cleaning, washing and ironing, were carried out by the girls themselves under strict supervision. This was considered to be a useful training for their future, either in marriage - if they were fortunate enough to find a man willing to take them on, or in domestic service. Though as such positions were harder to come by since the war, Dena couldn’t quite see the point. Learning to read, which many of the girls couldn’t do, would surely have done them much more good.

  Her allotted task on that first day was to slice dozens of loaves of bread and spread them with margarine and a thin layer of jam, to make sandwiches for tea.

  The food was wholesome and plain, although not particularly substantial. And having milk in one’s tea was not so wonderful, Dena discovered, as more often than not it had gone sour in the heat of the kitchen. Breakfast had been porridge, which she’d missed this morning as she’d been late making her bed, and for dinner mutton stew followed by tapioca pudding, of which she’d eaten every scrap.

  Dena seemed to be perpetually hungry so when no one was looking she sneaked a small piece of bread and jam. She was still chewing this when cook asked her to fetch a pitcher of milk from the dairy and unfortunately noticed a betraying scrap of jam at the corner of Dena’s mouth.

  ‘Are you eating, girl? Empty your mouth this instant.’

  Desperately, Dena swallowed the evidence in one gulp. ‘No, Cook!’ She could tell by the hard glare the woman was giving her that she didn’t believe her. ‘I’ll go and fetch the milk, shall I?’ Only too happy to escape her eagle eye.

  Unfortunately, on her way back from the dairy, Dena encountered the geese. She’d heard them cackling but this was the closest she’d ever come to the vicious creatures. Most girls had learned to take a few crusts with them to use as a bribe and lure the birds out of the way. Unaware of this, and never having seen geese before, Dena was startled and then frightened when they crowded around her, cackling and gabbling.

  She flapped at them with her free hand. ‘Go away, go away!’ which only seemed to annoy them more than ever.

  Her alarm turned to fear when they reached up their long necks and started pecking at the milk jug clasped in her other hand. Dena panicked and fled for her life. Unfortunately the flag stones in the yard were uneven, the geese were pecking at her backside by this time and in her terror Dena tripped and fell, spilling milk everywhere.

  Cook came storming out wielding a brush to chase the creatures off. Dena rather expected the dreadful woman to batter her with it too but fortunately she managed to control herself and just yelled at her instead.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, girl? Get up, have you no sense at all? Can’t you deal with a few geese?’

  Dena had so wanted to impress but her efforts were a complete disaster.

  She was set to scrubbing the outside steps by way of punishment for lying, and stealing and wasting food. It was not a propitious start. And because there were so many steps, pinching the jam butty did her no good at all as she now missed out on tea as well.

  Nor was she allowed to go to the playground with the other girls before supper. Instead she was sent to the quiet room beside the chapel and instructed to write out several verses from the gospel of Saint Matthew, ready to recite them off by heart to Matron the following morning.

  Despite her vow not to, Dena did rather a lot of weeping in those first few days and nights, stuffing the sheet into her mouth so that there would be no sound. Though who she was crying for she couldn’t rightly have said. Not her mother, that was for sure. Kenny perhaps? Pete? Or perhaps simply herself.

  She would slip the locket over her head and wear it in bed where nobody could see it. It gave her great comfort to feel the smoothness of the silver heart between her fingers, and helped her to remember those few magical moments when Kenny had kissed her.

  Dena thought perhaps she wasn’t alone in her misery as sometimes she heard other sniffs and sobs in the still darkness, but not a word was ever spoken, most of the girls being too fearful of Matron, which Dena didn’t wonder at.

  Others, however, were not so timid.

  On the third night she was dozing nicely, just slipping into sleep when the blankets were ripped from her and a dozen pairs of hands lifted her from the bed. They laid her on one of the scratchy brown blankets then lifted it up and tossed her high in the air. It was pitch dark, Dena couldn’t work out quite where she was or how high they were tossing her, and was absolutely terrified. Even more so when something hit her hard on the head. Had they sent her right up to the ceiling? Surely not, it must be too high!

  She squealed and begged them to stop but that only brought a harder battering to her head.

  ‘Don’t make a sound or you’ll get far worse.’ This from Norah Talbot who fervently believed that she ruled the roost in this dormitory.

  Dena bit down hard on her lip and remained sil
ent even though she was terrified that at any moment they’d toss her out of the blanket and she’d crash onto the hard wooden floor.

  Of course they were only hitting her head with a book, a large atlas kept specifically for the purpose, and afterwards Dena felt something of a fool to have been so worried.

  Another night came the “ghost”: a white figure appearing at her bedside emitting a stomach-churning wail. Dena was so petrified that she leapt screaming from her bed, and only when she heard the soft giggles all around her did she realise that she’d been tricked yet again.

  So many rules. So much to learn and be wary of!

  And she was starting to feel so homesick, though why she couldn’t imagine. For Kenny at least. She missed him so much! Talking about home, particularly in bed, was generally discouraged as it was believed that this hindered the girls from settling, although some did indulge in a few reminiscences on occasion. Dena was happy to comply with this rule, at least. She had no wish to reveal the fact that her own mother had voluntarily handed her into care, like a dog she was tired of and couldn’t be bothered to look after any more.

  But it didn’t stop the questions from going round and round in her own head. Why didn’t Mam want her? Why did she no longer love her? And what if she never came back for her? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Kenny was feeling deeply dissatisfied with his lot. He was really missing Dena, not broken-hearted exactly but definitely regretting her hasty departure. And just when he’d been getting somewhere at last.

  He glanced sideways at the girl sitting beside him in the cinema and couldn’t, for a moment, remember her name. Gladys? Glenda? Jeannie, that was it. Then again, it might be Jenny.

  At least the film had been good. Alan Ladd in Shane. The only disappointment was that although the gunman was a fast enough draw with his six-shooter, he was never keen to use it. He beat the cattle farmers in the end, but Kenny felt that he would have had them begging for mercy much sooner. Still, it was a good film, better than that soppy Call Me Madam Jenny had insisted they see last week. She didn’t seem to have enjoyed this one much, judging by the way she’d hardly kept her eyes on the screen for more than five minutes together.

  This wasn’t a problem when she’d been all over him earlier, till he’d got bored and told her to stop, admitting to himself that he was actually more interested in the film. His rebuff hadn’t seemed to shut her up though. Never stopped talking the whole way through, and why should he bother to put up with her endless prattling when there were plenty of other girls ready and willing to take her place?

  Hell, he liked girls, never seemed to have any trouble in attracting them. They admired his boyish charms, liked to run their fingers through his soft fair locks, and it felt good to have an attractive bird on his arm. Made him look important, a sort of man-about-town. But why was it that they were all so dead boring?

  Kenny walked her to the bus stop, making some excuse about having to be home at a decent hour as he was on earlies the next day. That was another thing: his job. He’d managed to get taken on in a warehouse by Salford docks, but he wasn’t getting on with his new boss one bit. The man was always complaining he wasn’t working hard enough. He kept saying boxes had to be loaded, not used to park your bum on for a smoke. Nag, nag, nag, the whole bleeding time.

  ‘You’re not going to walk me home then, Kenny, the long way?’ She was fluttering her eyelashes suggestively at him, and wiggling her skinny hips.

  ‘Not tonight Jenny love.’

  ‘Josie. Me name’s Josie.’ She sounded very slightly put out.

  ‘Sorry. Anyway, got to run. See you.’

  He heard her call after him, asking if he wanted to see her again, something about having a free evening next Wednesday. She worked in the tobacconists on Castle Street, which was where he’d met her. She’d looked quite sexy behind the counter reaching him a packet of Gold Flake then leaning over the counter so he could see right down her blouse. Now he pretended not to hear her.

  Jenny, Josie, whatever her flaming name was, her head was as empty as a tin bucket.

  Sometimes he felt a nudge of guilt cheating on Dena like this. Not that she’d know, locked up in that home. The point was, who knew how long she’d be in that place and he had things to prove, didn’t he? He was fifteen already and still hadn’t plucked up the courage to go all the way with any of these floosies he picked up, ready and willing though some of them may be.

  Trouble was, he couldn’t seem to get the right sort of urges, and he blamed that entirely on Dena’s untimely departure.

  As the days and weeks slipped by Dena grew accustomed to the tricks and practical jokes, the rules and taboos, and even the joys and treats of life at Ivy Bank. There was always time allowed for games after dinner and then again in the evening: netball and rounders being among the favourites. There was a library with books which could be borrowed, all rather dreary and worthy but better than nothing.

  Best of all there was a big common room with a table tennis table, together with a selection of board games which they were allowed to use for an hour each evening. Or sometimes the girls would just sit by the fire and chat, dreaming of a future far away from Ivy Bank.

  Most of all, Dena found that she thoroughly enjoyed the time they spent in lessons, which included such subjects as biology, geography and history as well as the usual mathematics and English. And the staff were quite friendly, apart from fat Mrs Wallace, the French teacher, who took a caustic pleasure in catching them out in a mistake and would then beat them over the head with a ruler. She also took them for mathematics, so it was no wonder that Dena hated both subjects and felt the sting of that weapon on numerous occasions.

  Dena particularly liked Miss Stanford, who took needlework. She was a small, neat woman with a kind smile who seemed to take a genuine interest in the girls.

  One full morning a week was devoted to needlework and Dena found that she had a natural skill for sewing, although it was rarely anything more exciting than an apron or a peg bag. She was even permitted to use a treadle sewing machine which was so much faster than stitching it by hand and after a few weeks of hemming tea towels and dusters, began to grow more ambitious.

  Many of the girls liked to continue with their knitting and sewing of an evening and Dena would join in this little circle. One night she dared to make a suggestion.

  ‘Do you think Miss Stanford might allow us to make ourselves a proper dress each for the summer. One that’s a bit more fashionable than this dreadful gymslip?’ The other girls looked at her as if she’d gone wrong in the head.

  A welsh girl called Gwen said, ‘Miss Stanford might agree but I should think Matron would consider it to be an unnecessary vanity and therefore a complete waste of money, which no doubt would be better sent to the starving babies in Africa.’

  ‘I could ask.’

  ‘You could jump out of an aeroplane without a parachute but she would never allow it. She simply wouldn’t provide the material.’

  ‘We could buy remnants of cotton quite cheap at the indoor market on Champion Street. I know a really good stall.’

  But Gwen was proved to be entirely correct. When Dena dared to broach the subject to Miss Stanford, she looked quite flustered by the very idea

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t think so Dena. That would not be allowed at all.’

  ‘Why not? We could all make ourselves a party dress for the Coronation. What do you think?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Miss Stanford looked thoughtful, clearly tempted by this notion. Plans for the celebration, in just a few weeks, were well advanced but no one had given any thought to what the girls were meant to wear for the party.

  ‘Couldn’t you at least ask? She can only say no.’

  The teacher gave a tired smile. ‘Dear me, Dena, she can do a great deal more than that. She could dismiss me for impertinence and I have no wish to lose my job.’

  Dena giggled. ‘Then I’ll ask her. She’s welcome to dismiss me if she wants.’
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  Matron was appalled by the very idea. More dangerously, she issued a stern warning. ‘You’ve only been with us a few short weeks, Dena Dobson, but I’d take care not to step out of line, if I were you. You’re making yourself overly conspicuous if you go on trying to find ways to bend the rules. We like people to blend in at Ivy Bank, not make an exhibition of themselves.’

  Dena was more disappointed than seemed quite justified in the circumstances. She did admit to herself that it wasn’t so much that she’d wanted a new dress as she’d been hoping for an excuse to visit Champion Street Market again to buy the fabric.

  Wouldn’t she just love to have a natter with her friend, Winnie Watkins?

  Chapter Twelve

  April and May passed by in a blur but at last June arrived. With it came the excitement of the Coronation and, even more thrilling, on the day before a letter came for Dena, the first one she’d received since she arrived at Ivy Bank.

  She knew at once that it must be from Kenny. Who else would write to her? She hadn’t received so much as a postcard from her mother. Now here was a long letter for her to enjoy. Dena was filled with excitement and couldn’t wait for night to come so that she could read it under the bed covers in private.

  In the meantime, Dena hid it away in her bible with the locket.

  The day seemed endless, but when bed-time came at last she borrowed a small electric torch off Gwen, pulled the covers right over her head and began to read.

  His first words were to tell her that he still loved her and Dena’s heart gave a fierce beat of delight. She’d expected Kenny to have forgotten all about her, yet here he was promising to wait for her; saying how he couldn’t even look at another girl he was missing her that much.

  ‘They can’t keep you in that home for ever. Once you’re sixteen we can get engaged, and marry as soon as you turn eighteen. We just need your mother to give her permission, and why would she refuse? It would free her of all duty towards you. You’d be my responsibility after that, and I could look after you for ever and ever. Till then you can come and live with us and work full-time on the market. Mam won’t mind.’