May’s girls, Jeanette, Felicity and Suze, had calloused and tough hands, as if they worked outdoors. They were used to it all, used to May and each other. They worked well in the small space, moving neatly past one another and never getting in the way. Their conversation was as choreographed as their movements. Mary interrupted their sequences. She hovered, trying to be in the right place, but jogged Suze’s elbow as she passed her the pink rubber perm curlers, which then spilt from their tray onto the floor and wriggled through Mary’s fingers as she tried to pick them up. She knocked against Felicity’s ankles when sweeping up hair and slopped tea as she carried it from the cubicle kitchen. They would reprimand her, not raising their voices, just tightening the cooing tone in which they chatted to their customers.
Jeanette was tall and tanned, and wore short, sleeveless dresses with a gold chainbelt hooked round her skinny hips. She had a cap of brown hair, cut into points on either side of her face and tinted every week so that it looked glossy and hard and, in sunlight, had an iridescent gleam. Her long fingers, which Mary would watch raking and fiddling with thin grey hair, were stained with nicotine. She had a deep, dry voice and a bossy, offhand manner that her customers loved. Suze was also tall, but fair and round. Her skin was apricot coloured from regular sessions on a sunbed, but slack and dull like that of the fruit starting to rot. She had a big smile and a swaying arc of brittle, backcombed hair. It was Felicity who taught Mary how to shampoo. Mary thought she was more like a PE mistress than a hairdresser – compact, brisk and plain. Felicity had an unfussy cut, the kind that women came in and asked for after they started having children.
After a couple of days, Mary was allowed to shampoo a customer. It was a Mrs Baker, from the caravan site, someone Mary was grateful to realise she did not know. Mary placed a towel round her shoulders and folded a smaller one under her neck. Mrs Baker settled her head back, shut her eyes and smiled. Mary fiddled with the taps, running the water from the shower-head over her hands, muttering about getting the temperature just right. Mrs Baker clucked and smiled, settled herself some more and waited. Mary spread her left hand across the top of the woman’s forehead as she had been shown, to protect her face from the spray. She was taken aback to realise that she had never touched old hair before. It was crisp and light, and felt as if it might come away in her hand. And as she began to run the water over Mrs Baker’s scalp, it did seem as if her hair dissolved as the colourless strands were quickly soaked and plastered themselves to her scalp. Then Mrs Baker, who had looked to Mary like any other powdered, wrinkled, grey little old lady when she came in, began to look monstrous. Her opened out, upside-down face came alive. Her pulled-back hair revealed a line where her foundation ended in a tidemark. Mary imagined peeling it off like a mask. Her face powder caught in the down on her cheeks and in the thicker hairs that had coarsened to whiskers on her chin. Her thin mouth had puckered and collapsed and her orange-pink lipstick, the sort of colour children use when painting skin, had sunk into the hard lines that hemmed her mouth. Mary saw the tiny knot of veins throbbing at her temple and the thick corded veins among the crumpled skin of her neck. She poured out the shampoo and tried to concentrate on massaging it into Mrs Baker’s hair. The old woman groaned dreamily and muttered, ‘Lovely’, and Mary thought, Nobody ever touches her, this must be the only time she’s touched, and tried to stop hating what she was doing. Although she did not admit it to herself, Mary would see all the customers like that from now on, as old people who were not so much decaying as drying up, silting up, withering into dust, sand and stone. Because of this, it shocked her when her lowered face was caught in their warm breath, or if they burped or farted, as some of them did either unconsciously or in pained submission to their loosening bodies.
The kitchen was reached through a small room in which the hairdressers took their breaks. When they were free at the same time they stayed back there, squeezed together, drinking coffee, smoking and talking. This afternoon there were no customers and May was out, but they stayed in the back room. It was too small a space to sit down in, so it was like being in a lift where people had got stuck together and felt compelled to talk. Mary was there too, taking up as little space as she could. The cooing voices of the salon were released in hisses, splutters and shrieks, as they grabbed one another and doubled up to stop the noise they made from carrying. Jeanette was avid, hawk-like, pouncing on the beginning of a confession or piece of gossip. She was also generous with her own revelations: ‘So Father Barclay stood there talking to my tits!’; ‘I laughed so hard when Malcolm couldn’t get it up, I wet myself!’. Suze would offer herself up too: ‘I’ve got the itch. Can’t get rid of it. Been to see that Dr Kill Off twice.’ Felicity was still quieter than the others, but more violent: ‘Better get down the clap clinic before you scratch it off!’ and they would gasp and giggle some more.
Mary breathed their smoke and tried to laugh at the right moments. She was fascinated. It was like the changing rooms at school, where someone was always patrolling, looking for something to mock, only here she was safe, not picked on but overlooked. Then Suze said something about Sophie Hepple. ‘Gagging for it!’ Jeanette smirked. ‘That Christie goes home at closing time each night, full of beer. Brewer’s droop, I’ll be bound!’
‘Perhaps she’s getting it from the Loony! If you didn’t know he was cracked, I mean you might, mightn’t you, with looks like that?’ It was Felicity who said it. They all looked at Mary.
‘Says he has a thing about you,’ Jeanette began. Mary wished she was by the door and could slip away. Jeanette’s voice softened. ‘Don’t let him bother you, love. He’s always been cracked, that one, but he’s no harm, really. Take no notice.’
‘No more walking on water, heh?’ Felicity was smiling as she said it but, again, nobody laughed. The end of Jeanette’s cigarette sizzled as she dropped it into her cold tea.
Suze began, awkwardly, ‘I mean, it’s like May says, right? If he knew it were all nonsense, if the girl told him straight …’ Jeanette’s eyebrows shot up and Felicity gave a small, rapid shake of her head. Mary began to move through them, to the door. Suze stopped her with a hand on her arm and continued: ‘Don’t get me wrong, love. Says you’re a good girl but, it’s like they say, Tom’s never been right in the head, but he can be put straight. You could just say –’
Mary pulled herself free. She grabbed the broom and made for the salon, overhearing Jeanette mutter, ‘And what if she did, Suze?’
The three women appeared in the salon. They followed Mary round, cleaning brushes and collecting up towels, curlers and pins – jobs that Mary was supposed to do.
‘Don’t worry love!’ Suze tilted her head and gave a pouting, apologetic smile. ‘The place is full of odd ones, always has been. That boy’s nothing to be troubled about. I’ve known him donkey’s years!’
‘After all,’ Jeanette said. ‘There’s my Uncle Bob. Too scared to so much as pick up a kitten since he left the Special Services! Thinks he’ll break anything he touches!’
‘Wasn’t Dr Burgess called in to get him sent off to hospital last Christmas?’
‘Yeah. Sectioned, he was. Stayed there till Easter but doing fine at home, on the medication. Aunt Em’s the man of the house now!’
‘Not so much of a man as Dot Grieves!’ Felicity put in, picking up the thread. ‘I’ve begun to think her old man’s clothes suit her!’
‘Now he was a case as well,’ Suze remembered. ‘Haunted, he was, by his time in Japan. Dot used to find him curled up in a ball in the field behind the house. I thought she’d be relieved when he was gone!’
‘The old ones aren’t ever what you think, are they?’ Jeanette sounded proud. ‘Mind you, our lot had some crackers, didn’t it, Suze?’ They’d been at secondary school together. ‘Remember Hilary Thropton Smith?’
‘Hilary Thropton Smith!’ sang Suze. ‘The posh girl who married that Indian chap!’
‘She turned up once, with the baby,’ Jeanette recalled. ‘Parents w
ouldn’t let them inside the door.’
‘Says the baby was a lovely little thing.’
‘Oo, and what about Lady Kay?’
‘I remember that!’ said Felicity. ‘That was all over the papers!’
‘She was in our class!’ Suze and Jeanette chorused and Jeanette went on. ‘You’d never have thought she had it in her. So quiet and dull, with those kneesocks and that violin. She must have been having us all on even then!’
Mary was curious. ‘What did she do?’
‘You never heard of Lady Kay?’ said Suze. ‘Kay d’Arcy, actually. Sounds posh but her father were only a hand on Factory Farm. She went down to London, called herself Lady, even managed to get it on her cheque book and that. Worked for a politician and took him for thousands. Went to prison, didn’t she?’
‘And there was her sister, Beverley. Poor old Beverley.’
‘Wasn’t it to do with her glands?’ asked Felicity. ‘That court case made the papers, too.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mary.
‘Let’s just say it wasn’t her glands and that butcher should have been locked up,’ Jeanette explained tartly.
‘She died, you see,’ simpered Suze.
The names they conjured up were almost familiar but Mary had never been told these stories. She had heard these people mentioned in a telegraphic shorthand passed between grown-ups, with raised eyebrows and knowing sidelong looks. Hearing such garish dramas was like seeing the village coloured in, made foreign and more unknowable than ever.
Jeanette caught Mary looking in the mirror and leapt behind her: ‘Don’t move!’ Mary did what she was told. ‘What would you care for today?’ Jeanette trilled in her best salon voice. Mary frowned as Jeanette reached for the wigs arranged on polystyrene heads with the same profile as that on the sign outside.
She pushed the blonde one onto Mary’s head and they all laughed, even Mary who could not now be cross. ‘I look like a sick sheep!’ she managed and they roared. She blushed, pleased to have entertained them. Then the red wig went on. ‘A shy carrot!’ Mary was enjoying herself. Lastly, Jeanette turned her into a brunette and Mary forgot to make a joke as she saw herself with this incongruous but wonderful thick, shiny hair.
‘Deep … dark,’ Suze ventured and the others gathered round Mary, taking off her glasses, pulling the wig a little from side to side, fluffing out and smoothing the hair.
Jeanette regarded the pale, skinny girl in her old-fashioned shift dress. ‘We could make something of you,’ she grinned.
‘Oo! Would you let us?’ Suze was excited. ‘There’s no one in the rest of the afternoon and Madam M’s pushed off.’ Felicity was smiling, too.
Mary was charmed. ‘OK.’ They wrapped her in a gown and led her to the sink.
While Jeanette washed her hair, Suze announced she would give her a French manicure. Mary closed her eyes and enjoyed the rush of more water than Stella would ever let her use at home, where they had no shower-head for the bath, just a tin mug with which to wet and rinse. Suze pulled over her little manicure trolley, laid a tissue on a velvet cushion and arranged Mary’s hand upon it. She separated her fingers with puffs of cotton wool and rubbed cream that smelt of almonds into them, murmuring about her ‘lovely soft skin, so elastic …’. Mary’s hands grew long and light, just as Jeanette’s brisk massage of her scalp was easing her head. When her hair had been washed, they moved her in front of a mirror. Suze followed with her trolley, and began to file and dab. Jeanette combed her hair through and Felicity came over with a colour chart.
The three hairdressers considered their options expertly: ‘Just a rinse, give her a bit of colour, but subtle.’
‘She wants something to make it a bit more definite, but she’s a pink not an olive so watch the aubergine end of things.’
‘Autumnal, rather than winter, don’t you think? Something woody with a bit of warmth to it? A touch of sun?’ They weighed up Copper Beech (‘too light’), Walnut Gold (‘too orange’) and decided on Midnight Chestnut (‘subtle but deep’). Mary wanted to say, ‘Black. Just dye it black,’ but when she squinted at the square of Midnight Chestnut, it looked as good as black to her. While Felicity swabbed the purple dye onto her head, Suze continued with her nails. First, she put little paper crescents on her fingertips and applied the ‘bottom coat of natural’. Then the strips came off and the bare rims of the nails were painted white. Then a ‘top coat of clear’. Mary held a finished hand up to her face. Her nails looked like an image of naturalness – shiny pink and white. She rather liked it. Her scalp began to itch and burn but she didn’t want to say anything to spoil all this and before long, Felicity announced it was time to rinse the dye off. When she was returned to the mirror, Mary asked for her glasses but they said no, she should wait and then get the ‘full effect’.
Jeanette put out her cigarette and took up her scissors. She stood to one side of the mirror, scrutinising Mary’s face. ‘Girls, I’ve been thinking Mary Quant or Audrey …’ Suze clapped and squealed. Felicity nodded hard. Mary tried to watch but although her hair looked darker and more substantial now, even at this short distance it began to blur. When Jeanette had finished, Mary went to get up but they pushed her back down. ‘Patience! Patience! We’ve to do your face, yet.’ Felicity plucked her eyebrows and coloured them with pencil. Suze applied foundation with a wet sponge and then painted Mary’s eyelids and mouth with tiny flicks of various brushes, in several colours. ‘It’s ever so subtle,’ she reassured her. Three coats of mascara followed and a dusting of powder and rouge. They told her to close her eyes and stood her up. Felicity handed her her glasses.
At closing time, they all spilled out of the salon together, laughing and patting Mary’s hair. She loved them, loved being surrounded by them and waved them off as they got into Felicity’s car. None of them lived in the village. Suze had grown up there but married an accountant who caught the Mortimer Tye commuter train, so they lived there. Jeanette was divorced and was saving up to buy herself a studio flat in Camptown. For now she was back with her parents, in a tied cottage on the Ingfield Road. Felicity was from Mortimer Over, two train stops down towards Crouchness.
‘Mary?’ It was Clara. She was bronzer than ever, her hair more firey. She had scraped it back and secured it in a messy knot with what looked like skewers. The ends, which sprung away in all directions, had been bleached blonde by the sun. She had on a black t-shirt with a studded hem and tight black jeans. ‘I only knew it was you from the dress,’ she laughed. ‘Been and had your hair done?’
‘No, I …’ Mary pulled off her glasses and rubbed at her face. ‘I work there, see. They just wanted someone to …’ She ran a hand through her hair, trying to mess it up a bit but it fell back into its sleek new shape. ‘Have you been away?’
‘Italy. Famiglia. You know …’ Clara was looking away now. ‘Christ, this summer is dragging and with Paulie away with his car, it’s almost impossible to get into town.’
‘The buses are going back to normal this week.’
‘I meant London.’ There was a pause. ‘Anyway,’ Clara continued and there was another pause before she asked, ‘What’s this about a Harvest Festival Disco? Any good?’
Mary copied her droll tone. ‘It’s hopeless. Cheesy music, mums and dads, orange squash and lemonade.’
‘Are you going?’
‘Never miss it.’
‘Good! It’ll be a laugh. By the way, Daniel’s back as well. Has he been in touch?’
‘Yes.’ Mary thought of the card, then realised Clara might mean since his return. ‘I mean not since … Since your dinner … he has, I mean.’ All this time, she had been facing into the light, and already she could feel her make-up clot and run. ‘I’ve got to go, good to see you, bye.’
Mary hurried past The Head and round onto the Green. Once home, she stood back from her bedroom mirror, still wearing her glasses. The effect was good. She felt more definite. Then she took off her glasses and moved closer. Her skin was a matt biscuit
colour. Her bottom lip had been enlarged by a brownish line that ran round and up to her Cupid’s bow, which was exaggerated into two high points. Inside the line, her lips were coated with a beige pink and finished with gloss that made her look as if she had dipped her mouth in icing that hadn’t dried yet. Mary leant forward and kissed the mirror, and was surprised by the print she made. She quite liked her eyes. The pale lids and black lines were not so different from what she did, anyway. It was just that Suze had wanted to make her pretty and, as she said, ‘Open them up’, whereas what Mary wanted was to look artistic.
When she had scrubbed the make-up off, her hair looked harsh against her sore, pink face. It was shockingly smooth and flat. ‘Washes out,’ Felicity had promised. So Mary got her radio and turned it on loud to cover the noise of running water, and managed to wash her hair four times before Stella knocked on the door.
After Mary had been working at the salon for two weeks, Tracey the shampoo girl came back from her festival. May Hepple and her girls had become fond of Mary, but she had never managed to get the hang of things. There were always spills, missed heaps of hair, forgotten towels and a customer complaining of soap in her eyes. They patted Mary, clucked and shook their heads, but were glad to see Tracey back. Mary was kept on as Saturday girl.
‘You a hairdresser now?’ Lucas asked her the next morning over breakfast.
‘On Saturdays.’
‘Could you give us a trim, then?’ Stella came in with his egg.
‘I don’t cut hair, I only wash it.’
‘Just a trim?’
Mary knew what her mother would expect of her. It was only more old hair. It would be like straightening a hem. ‘OK.’ Stella was smiling at her, but she wouldn’t look up. ‘I’ll fetch some scissors when you’ve eaten.’
Mary George of Allnorthover Page 15