“Look at yourself in the mirror.” Ruby guided me to the looking glass.
I looked at my reflection and saw myself with fresh eyes. My dress was sleek and stylish, but my hair was still in the style of yesteryear, not at all like Ruby’s neat bob that framed her face in such a flattering way.
“Cheer up,” said Ruby, catching sight of my crestfallen face in the mirror. “We can easily sort it out.” She had brought her sewing box upstairs in case she needed to make any adjustments to the dress. She opened the lid and pulled out a pair of enormous scissors, the kind used for cutting out fabric.
“You must be joking!” I took a step back from her.
“I know what I’m doing,” she said. “I cut Julia’s hair for her at the house.”
Like so many women these days, Julia had short hair that skimmed her jawline and I admired the way she looked. More and more young women were adopting that style. But was I ready to go down that route myself? It seemed like such a drastic step. Father had always said how much he liked my long hair.
“Besides,” said Ruby, “short hair is so much easier to look after.” She ran her fingers through her own bouncy locks.
She had a point there. Washing my long hair in the tub in the kitchen was such a palaver, involving goodness knows how many jugs of water. Ruby held up the ends of my hair so I could get an idea of what I would look like. I felt my resolve starting to melt. What was the worst that could happen? If I hated it I could always grow it back.
“So what do you say?” asked Ruby.
“Oh, all right.”
“Splendid.” Ruby pulled out the bedroom chair and told me to sit down. She spent a few moments combing through my hair. Then she tilted my head forwards and I felt the cold metal of the scissors against the back of my neck. I almost told her to stop but then I heard the blades snapping closed and a long strand of hair fell to the floor. It was too late to change my mind now.
Twenty minutes later, I looked at myself in the mirror. The young woman looking back at me was someone totally different: modern, up-to-date, more confident looking. It would take some getting used to but I was already rather pleased with the result.
~~~
At work the next day I registered the surprise on Billy’s face when he saw me in the ticket booth. I had spent ages that morning trying to get my new hairstyle to behave itself, but I had messed up my hair by sleeping on it and the results of trying to tame it with a wet comb had been less than successful.
“It suits you,” said Billy with more enthusiasm than I felt was warranted.
“Do you think so?” I asked, tugging at the ends in a futile attempt to lengthen them.
“Absolutely. It’s very...” he searched for the right word.
“I believe chic is the word you’re looking for,” said an American voice. Mr Franklin walked over and leaned nonchalantly on the counter, giving me a wink. I was appalled, worried what Billy would think.
“It looks very nice,” said Billy sweetly. He glared at Mr Franklin then turned and went upstairs to the projection room. Mr Franklin smiled conspiratorially at me then made his way over to Mr Thompson’s office whistling a jaunty tune.
I didn’t see Billy again until the end of the day and then we only had a short time together before he had to leave. He and his mother were catching the evening train to Whitby. We walked down to the Victorian shelter by the spa buildings and huddled together for warmth.
“I wish you didn’t have to go to Whitby,” I said.
“So do I,” he said. “You’ll have a much more enjoyable New Year’s Eve than me. Mother will want to be in bed by ten o’clock. I could go out for a drink, but I won’t know anybody. You’re lucky you’ve got a party to go to.”
“I’d enjoy it more if you were coming with me.” I kissed him on the cheek.
He turned to face me. “Once we’re married we’ll spend every New Year’s Eve together.” Then he pulled me into a tight embrace and kissed me passionately on the lips. I would have been happy to stay there all evening.
We walked back up to the prom and said our farewells. Billy told me to make sure I enjoyed myself and I promised to do my best. Once he’d gone, I went straight round to Ruby’s. We had agreed to get ready there and go to the party together. I was also hoping that Ruby would be able to fix my hair for me. It was still sticking out at odd angles, and I was regretting having let Ruby cut it.
Ruby took one look at my hair and ushered me into the kitchen. “Short hair needs styling,” she said. “You can’t just let it do its own thing.”
“I did try,” I lamented. I didn’t add that short hair was supposed to be easier to look after. It seemed to me now that long hair did have certain advantages.
Ruby made me sit down at the kitchen table. Then she disappeared off to her room and came back a minute later with a comb and some iron tongs. She ran the comb under the tap then through my hair, making sure it was quite wet. Then she heated up the tongs in the gas flame on the stove and proceeded to wave my hair whilst steam billowed around my face. I worried what Mrs Swindlehurst would say if she came in now. Julia and Betty both popped into the kitchen whilst we were there but neither of them batted an eyelid and I got the impression they did this sort of thing all the time. When Ruby had finished there wasn’t a strand out of place and my hair lay in perfect waves.
“Thank you,” I said with relief.
“You’re welcome.”
We went up to her room and changed into our dresses. I had a new pair of stockings for the occasion which I pulled on carefully, not wanting to ladder them. Ruby wore an emerald green dress with beaded tassels around the bottom. Around her forehead she placed a sparkly headband with a feather in it.
“Are you sure you won’t wear the feather boa?” she asked, dangling it in front of me.
I’d promised Billy I would enjoy myself so I said, “All right then, I will.”
“Splendid,” said Ruby, draping it around my shoulders. She also hung a long string of beads around my neck and gave me one of her African-styled bangles that I wore high up above my elbow. I allowed Ruby to brush some rouge onto my cheeks and just the lightest covering of lipstick. I didn’t want to look like a complete floozy.
We stopped by the kitchen on our way downstairs where Julia and Betty were heating up a pan of soup. They paused in their culinary endeavours to compliment us, saying how marvellous we looked and to be sure to enjoy ourselves and not to do anything they wouldn’t. This last remark was said with a wink and directed more at Ruby who gave a coy smile but certainly didn’t promise to behave herself. Then we set off into the night towards the Grand Hotel.
Growing up in Scarborough, I was used to the overbearing presence of the Grand Hotel, the way it dominated the South Bay promenade, with its twelve floors and four turrets, but it had always seemed to belong to a different world, not the sort of place I would ever visit, let alone stay. It attracted wealthy customers who came to Scarborough for the rejuvenating spa waters, the pleasant promenade and the theatre entertainments. Now I was about to get a glimpse into the world of these people and I was excited and apprehensive in equal measure.
“Is my hair all right?” I asked Ruby when we reached St Nicholas’ Cliff. I was worried that the wind would have destroyed the waves she had so carefully created.
“It’s beautiful,” said Ruby. “But we can go to the ladies’ powder room and tidy ourselves up before we make our grand appearance in the ballroom.” I liked this suggestion because I needed a little extra time to gather my courage.
Motor cars were pulling up outside the hotel entrance and some very glamorous people were stepping out of them. My confidence took a sharp dive when I saw the women in their silk dresses and high heels, furs draped around their shoulders and long strings of pearls dangling from their elegant necks. The men looked dapper in black dinner jackets and bow ties with slick-backed hair, neatly parted at the side. How could I ever hope to mix with these people in my old dress? Ruby’s alteration
s had seemed so clever back in the cottage, but now I worried that they were amateurish and home-spun.
“Is this a good idea?” I asked.
“Why ever not?”
“Just look at these people, though. How are we going to fit in?”
“By smiling and looking confident,” said Ruby, linking her arm through mine as we approached the hotel entrance.
A uniformed hotel porter on the door was glancing at the invitations as people passed, but mostly he was just waving people through. Ruby pulled our invitations from her handbag and held them up for inspection, smiling sweetly and giving a little flutter of her eyelashes.
“The Cabaret Ballroom is to your left, ladies,” said the porter, holding the door open for us. We walked into the hotel lobby and it was as simple as that. I had been sure the porter would turn us away, maybe try to redirect us to the tea-dance at the spa, but we were inside and my mouth dropped open at the sight of the grand, sweeping staircase, the marble pillars and the twinkling chandeliers.
“Don’t stand there gawping,” hissed Ruby.
“Sorry.”
We deposited our hats and coats in the cloakroom and then tidied ourselves up in the ladies’ powder room, combing our hair and reapplying our lipstick. I looked at myself in the mirror, hardly recognising the face that looked back at me, my cheeks flushed from the walk in the cold night air and my eyes sparkling with the thrill and anticipation of the ball. I wished Billy could have been there to share the evening with me, but I was glad to have Ruby and I determined to enjoy myself.
“Come on then,” said Ruby. “Let’s go and party.” The doors to the ballroom stood wide open. Either side of the doorway were two large Egyptian-style vases, painted with images of Pharaohs and sphinxes.They were about four feet high, filled with soil and planted with giant palm fronds that formed a green archway through which the guests entered. They seemed to me terribly exotic and I wondered how they managed to survive in Scarborough in the winter. Up on the stage a band consisting of piano, trumpet, clarinet, drums and double bass was playing a foot-tapping medley of jazz tunes. The dance-floor was already crowded with people spinning and twirling to the music. Men and women stood around the edge of the room, drinking brightly-coloured cocktails from tall-stemmed glasses, smoking cigarettes attached to long cigarette holders and talking and laughing in high-pitched voices.
“Ladies, let me fetch you something to drink,” said a familiar American voice behind us. We turned to see Mr Franklin resplendent in a dinner jacket and black bow tie. “Waiter, over here. These ladies are expiring from lack of a drink.” He clicked his fingers at a passing waiter who bore a tray of cocktails balanced on the fingertips of one hand.
Ruby tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and adopted a wide, doe-eyed look. Mr Franklin flagged down the waiter with the confidence of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed. The waiter executed a nimble about-turn and approached us without spilling a drop. Mr Franklin plucked two glasses from the tray and handed them to Ruby and me, somehow managing to manoeuvre himself between us in the process. I could smell his aftershave and hair cream.
“Thank you,” I said, holding the delicate glass by its thin stem. The drink was bright pink. I had no idea what it was.
“I just want to say how much I enjoyed the ride in your motorcar,” gushed Ruby, laying a hand on Mr Franklin’s forearm. “I don’t think I thanked you properly at the time.”
“Why, think nothing of it,” said Mr Franklin. “You ladies are welcome to come for a ride any time.” He was standing very close to me and suddenly I felt something tickling the small of my back. It took me a moment to realise it was Mr Franklin’s fingers. I stiffened and tried to move away, but the fingers stayed where they were.
“Will you be making any more films?” asked Ruby, fluttering her eyelashes and totally unaware of Mr Franklin’s hand on my back.
“That all depends if I can find the right actress to star in it. I’m looking for a particular type of girl.” Mr Franklin’s fingers started to move down my back, coming to rest on my left buttock. I jumped, spilling a little of my drink. Mr Franklin removed his hand and said, as if nothing had happened, “Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must greet these new arrivals.” He nodded towards an elegantly dressed couple who had just arrived in the ballroom and, to my relief, moved away.
“He seemed very pleased to see us,” said Ruby excitedly.
“Yes,” I said, taking a large mouthful of the pink drink to steady my nerves. I wasn’t sure whether to say anything to Ruby about what had just occurred. But I didn’t want to spoil the evening so soon after our arrival and, anyway, Mr Franklin had moved on now. The pink cocktail was sweet and very alcoholic and went straight to my head, making me blink. But it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation and took the edge off the thought of Mr Franklin’s roaming hand. I tried another sip and this one was easier to swallow. A warm glow spread through my insides and I told myself not to worry about Mr Franklin. Americans were known for being overly friendly, although I hadn’t expected him to be quite that friendly. The band finished playing their current tune and started another with a distinctive, syncopated rhythm.
“It’s the Charleston,” squealed Ruby. She finished her drink in one mouthful. “Come on, we have to dance this.”
I downed the rest of my drink and we deposited our glasses beside one of the Egyptian vases with the palm fronds. Then we made our way onto the dance-floor. I had never danced the Charleston before but I followed Ruby’s moves and soon got the hang of kicking my legs out to the side and swinging my arms in a parallel motion. The alterations that Ruby had made to my dress made it easy for me to move and soon I was dancing and enjoying myself, the incident with Mr Franklin all but forgotten.
~~~
We didn’t see Mr Franklin after that initial encounter and I was glad, although if he had stayed in the ballroom things might have worked out better than they did. The room was now packed with people and both Ruby and I were inundated with invitations to dance from dashing young men. It didn’t mean anything, everyone was dancing with everyone else, swapping partners with each new song the band played. It was all harmless fun. I thought of Billy taking his mother to visit her sister in Whitby. I hoped he would stay up to see in the New Year, but his mother and aunt would be tucked up in bed by now. I wished he was here with me, but he had told me to enjoy myself so I cheerfully accepted every dance request and found I was having a fabulous time. I’m afraid to say I lost count of the number of pink cocktails I drank. I don’t think I was drunk, just a little merrier and more relaxed than usual. I saw everything as if through rose-tinted spectacles: the ballroom was an enchanted palace, the women were beautiful, the men were handsome and the music was invigorating. I was surrounded by laughter, warmth and good cheer and felt happy to be alive.
Dancing, however, did not come naturally to everyone. At one point the band was playing Tin Roof Blues, a slow jazzy number, and I was being led around the dance floor by a rather studious young man who found it necessary to look at his feet and count out loud. One, two, three, four. Occasionally he trod on my toes and would then apologise profusely. I didn’t mind. I admired him for having a go when he obviously possessed two left feet. I was no expert myself. We were close to the potted palms near the entrance, doing our best to stay out of the way of more co-ordinated couples, when he suddenly stumbled and fell against me, knocking me off balance. I thought he was just being extra clumsy and I was about to suggest that maybe we should leave the dance floor and get another drink when I realised that someone had pushed past him. My dancing partner (I never did learn his name) was looking over his shoulder and frowning at three men in pin-stripe suits, not the customary dinner jackets, who had entered the ballroom and were now standing in the middle of the dance floor like pillars in an obstacle course. Couples tried to manoeuvre around them, some more successfully than others. The men took no notice.
With what little rhythm we’d had now totally destroyed, we
moved to the edge of the dance floor and observed the new arrivals. The man in the centre was short and stout, his round belly protruding over the waistband of his trousers. He wore a straw-coloured trilby with a black band around the crown and stood with his feet firmly planted a foot apart, big hands gripping the lapels of his suit. His companions were taller and leaner. One had a long thin scar running along his right cheekbone. They stood either side of the man in the hat, like a pair of guard dogs. The one with the scar kept his right hand tucked inside his jacket as if he might suddenly pull a weapon out of a concealed pocket. The band played on, but the floor around the men started to clear as couples gradually stopped dancing and moved away. People whispered to each other, pointing at the men. From the bewildered faces I assumed that no one knew who these men were or why they were there. Eventually the head waiter, drinks tray balanced on the fingers of his right hand, strode across the now largely deserted dance floor and tried to tell the men to leave. He pointed towards the door but the men ignored him. One of the guard dogs put a hand on the waiter’s chest and pushed him out of the way. The tray of drinks fell from the waiter’s hand and crashed to the floor. The band finally faltered and fell silent.
The man in the trilby stepped forwards and approached a willowy woman in a cream silk gown with a long row of beads around her neck. “Where is he?” He spoke with a distinctive American drawl.
“Who?” asked the woman, looking down her nose at the man. In her high heels, she was a good couple of inches taller than him.
“You know who I’m looking for,” said the man. “That sonofabitch, Franklin.”
“Well, as you can see you’ve missed him.” She indicated the room with a sweep of her arm. “He’s not here now.”
“Is that so? Well, when you see Franklin you tell him that Harry Doyle is gonna kick his ass, you got that sweetheart?”
The woman held her ground. “Tell him yourself when you find him.” I was impressed by her unruffled demeanour.
“Don’t you get smart with me, lady.” He stepped closer to the woman, but the woman’s husband, a portly chap with ruddy cheeks and a big, old-fashioned moustache, had taken offence at Mr Doyle’s tone of voice.
Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2) Page 14