The Palace of Strange Girls

by Sallie Day

  Dr. C. R. Coffin’s American Dentifrice

  prepared by Darling of Manchester. An excellent

  preparation for the preservation of Teeth

  Beth opens the cardboard box and sees it is still half full of pink powder. First of all she tries patting the powder on to her cheeks. Anxious to see the effect, she drags the chair over to the washbasin. Climbing up, she can just about see her face in the mirror. But Dr. Coffin’s powder hasn’t worked. It is nowhere near dark enough and it falls off her cheeks the minute she pats it on. Beth stops and considers the problem. A solution occurs to her. She empties some of the powder into her hand and kneels down on the chair to reach the taps. With the addition of a trickle of cold water the powder not only turns dark pink but also stays put when she applies it to her lips. Beth stands on tiptoe to see her reflection. Her lips look a little lumpy but this is a small price to pay. All that remains now is to practice tiger leaps.

  10

  Gypsy

  Have you ever had your fortune told by a gypsy at the seaside? Did you cross her palm with silver? Did she have a crystal ball? Score 20 points.

  The Singletons are late for the evening meal. The corridors and stairs are deserted as they make their way downstairs. There’s a queue for the dining room and when the family finally get there it’s like a cattle market. The room is hot and noisy, the tables crowded, the air vibrating with the clatter of Sheffield steel against hotel china and the rumble of conversation. Florrie waves across the room at them and yells, “Coo-ee, Ruth. Over here! I’ve saved your table for you.”

  Ruth is torn between relief and annoyance. The last thing she wants is to be beholden to the Cleggs, but with the dining room as crowded as it is it’s a relief to sit down. The meal starts with brown Windsor soup thick enough to stand a spoon up in. What it lacks in meat, Ruth observes, is more than made up for with pepper. The main course consists of a couple of lamb chops reared up against a mountain of mash, peas the color and texture of spent shells and gravy that solidifies on contact. It’s an approximation of lemon meringue for afters. Ruth bakes the pudding according to Elizabeth Craig. The lemon base should be clear and sharp to the taste in contrast with the sweet crispness of the meringue. Ruth bakes the pastry blind and allows the lemon to cool fully before she fills the case. Haste at any point in the baking of a lemon meringue is asking for trouble. Sadly, the chef at the Belvedere has made the basic mistake of oversweetening the lemon. It runs from the pastry case like jam. And the rest? The meringue is chewy, the topping hasn’t been sealed properly and the pastry is waterlogged. Despite this Ruth’s daughters eat enthusiastically—as if they’d never tasted better. Probably it’s the sea air, Ruth reasons, that has made them so hungry. The meal is consumed in record time and the families disperse, leaving Ruth alone with Florrie.

  “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 alwa
ys 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.

  Blackburn, May 1, 1952

  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.

  The baby is born at dawn.

  “Another little girl for you, Mrs. Singleton. Worth all the effort, isn’t she?” The midwife lays the baby in Ruth’s arms.