by Sallie Day
Ruth Singleton is in no mood to partake of the holiday atmosphere today. She is so fed up after the argument with Helen and the disappointments of last night that she doesn’t even remind the girls not to breathe when they pass the black-and-white-striped lighthouse that disguises the town’s sewer ventilator. When it is apparent that the rain has set in for the morning the Singleton family retreat to one of the promenade shelters; Jack to nurse his hangover and come to terms with this morning’s shock revelation, Ruth to read her copy of Woman and Home, and the girls to kick their heels and watch the rain. By dinner time the whole family look dispirited. Jack folds up his newspaper and says, “Come on! Buck up! I fancy fish and chips for dinner. My treat. Come on, Helen. You can help me carry them back.”
Helen doesn’t look enthusiastic but Beth pipes up, “Let me, Daddy! I want to go. Can I help carry them back?”
“No, you can’t,” Ruth says. “You stay here with me. You’ll only get wet and catch a chill.”
“I don’t want to walk all the way into the center,” Helen moans.
“Come on, pet,” Jack continues. “It’s only just a bit further along the prom. We’ll be back in less than an hour if the queue’s not too bad.”
Helen sighs heavily and stands up. She buttons up her coat, adjusts her ponytail and combs her fingers through her fringe before picking up her handbag and venturing out of the shelter. Jack leans over the promenade railings and waits for his eldest daughter to catch up. Down below, the rainswept beach is deserted; even the donkeys are sheltering under the pier along with a smattering of disconsolate holidaymakers. For a moment Jack is reminded of the empty beach at Souda Bay where he and Eleni used to sunbathe and swim. In his memory she is turning her heart-shaped face towards him, chin tilted up, eyes closed against the glare. “You’ll come back? When it’s all over, I mean. You’ll come back and find me?” Jack’s eyes sting. He shakes his head and wrenches himself from the memory as a reluctant Helen catches him up.
There are still quite a few people on the promenade, heads down and hurrying through the rain. Jack and Helen settle into an easy pace. Jack forces his mind back into the present. “Come on, chick. Buck up! We’re supposed to be having a good time.”
“Well, I’m not,” Helen replies. “I could have earned a load of money at Blanche’s this week. It’s boring sitting on the beach every day. I’m not allowed to do anything here. And I just know that all my friends from school are away having a good time. I couldn’t get a word out of Connie this morning.”
“Maybe she was busy.”
“She was at Yates’s wine bar last night. I bet she had a really good time. She must have done because she’s got a new boyfriend.”
“How do you know?” Jack asks, forcing himself to stay calm.
“Me and Beth saw her bringing somebody back to where she lives. In the staff quarters, I mean.”
“Ah,” Jack manages.
“I thought it might be Alan Clegg, but it didn’t look like him. This bloke had a different jacket on.”
Jack forces himself to carry on moving his legs back and forth; walking slowly; keeping calm. But when Helen opens her mouth again he interrupts her, afraid of what she’ll say next. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier this morning. The exam results will be out next month. You might change your mind when you see how well you’ve done. It would be a shame to end up working for Blanche when you could earn a lot more with a couple of A-Levels. If you stay at school you could keep your Saturday job, keep all the money you earn, spend it how you want. I’ll square it with your mother.” Seeing Helen hesitate, he adds, “And I think you deserve a treat for finishing your exams, don’t you? Here, go and buy yourself a new blouse or something. Whatever you like.”
Jack pulls out his wallet and gives Helen a couple of notes. She is speechless for a moment, fixed to the spot while the couples in plastic macs drift around her. “What? Now? Can I get myself a blouse now? And a proper underskirt too?”
“I can’t see any harm if there’s enough change left.”
For a moment it looks as if Helen is going to burst with excitement. She points to the nearby Co-op. “I’ll go in there. That’s where Connie got her top.”
Jack opens his mouth but manages to smother his objections. “OK,” he says. “I’ll walk on up the road to the chip shop and wait for you there.”
Helen flies into the Co-op and, ignoring the lift, takes the marble stairs two at a time until she reaches ladies’ wear on the third floor. The whole floor is filled with forbidden fruits. Drip-dry nylon blouses, pencil skirts in Tricel, rayon dresses and Terylene trousers. Helen is momentarily overwhelmed. Blanche doesn’t carry anywhere near this much stock. Within moments Helen has been spotted and a smartly dressed shop assistant bears down on her. The woman’s demeanor is enough to frighten off the casual shopper but Helen stands firm. She knows precisely what she wants. She wants a black top with scarlet piping just like Connie’s. But they’ve sold out. There’s only pink with white piping left. The assistant guides Helen to the changing rooms and stands sentry outside the curtained cubicle. Once Helen has got changed she realizes that, although it may be pink instead of black, the top is satisfyingly tight when she pulls it on. The deep neckline clings to the very edge of her shoulders before curving round the top of her breasts. Helen has to slip her bra straps off her shoulders to avoid them showing.
“Is this the right size?” Helen asks the assistant when she emerges from the cubicle.
The older woman gives her a professional glance and says yes, any bigger and the top will drop off her shoulders. Helen knows that her mother will be outraged. Ruth has an aversion to tight clothes and this, allied to her habit of buying blouses and skirts with one, or preferably two, years’ growing space has ensured that Helen has spent her childhood and adolescence turning back cuffs and hitching up waistlines that droop and settle on her hips.
Helen subtracts the cost of the top from the notes in her hand and reckons that there’s still enough left for a full-blown layered net underskirt. The saleswoman measures Helen’s waist and disappears. When she reappears it is with a net underskirt so generously gathered that it springs up over her face as she carries it into the changing rooms. The white net layers shine and sparkle under the light. They are edged with white ribbon and there is a pink rosebud and bow at the waist. Helen pulls the underskirt up under her skirt and settles it at her waist. She is transformed, turned from schoolgirl to prima ballerina. Helen shifts from foot to foot with excitement. Glancing out of the window it seems that the weather has changed to match her mood. The rain has stopped and the streets are bathed in sunshine. She refuses the saleswoman’s offer to wrap her purchases and only asks for a carrier bag for her old blouse. It is a new Helen who steps out of the shop. Her cotton skirt billows out from her waist, the new net underskirt is just visible beneath the hem, the satin ribbon edging skimming her calves. Her face, neck and shoulders gleam white against the pink top as she hurries through the rainy streets to find her father.
Jack has bumped into Dougie outside the fish and chip shop. It’s one o’clock and Dougie has already sunk a couple of whiskies to dry himself out. Dougie is keen to hear the news. “How did you get on last night, Jack? What’s Tom Bell after?”
“Someone to replace him as area rep when he goes up to headquarters in London.”
“Are you taking it?”
“I don’t know. I’d set out with the idea that I’d accept whatever the Union could offer, but now I’m not sure. I don’t reckon Fosters will last—not unless they modernize. Nylon wasn’t supposed to last five minutes but look at the market now.”
“Whichever way you look at it you’ll earn more money as a manager than you’ll ever do with the Union. Stands to reason.”
“I don’t know about that—it more or less evens itself out on a day-to-day basis. But there again there’ll be a manager bonus if we have a good year.”
“Have you told Ruth?”
; “I just said I hadn’t made up my mind. She still kicked up merry hell this morning. Started trying to tell me about my responsibilities to her and the girls. As if I needed telling. She was all for me going with the Union, but only because she doesn’t know about the manager’s job at Prospect.”
“Have you still not told her? Why the hell not?”
“Because Ruth is only concerned with the short-term future. She wants a semi. She wants it now, no matter what the cost. She doesn’t care about anything that doesn’t directly involve the family. She doesn’t understand that every time a mill goes under it weakens the overall strength of the whole industry, never mind that it puts hundreds of weavers out of work with no redundancy and precious little dole. That sort of thing doesn’t even register on her radar.”
“Cheer up, man! You look as if you lost a shilling and found sixpence.”
“I wish it were that simple. Look, Dougie, why don’t we have a couple of beers at the Albion tonight? Eight o’clock suit you?”
“What’s the matter? Come on, Jack. Spit it out. You’ve had a face like a wet Monday all holiday.”
“It’s nothing. We’ll have a chat tonight.”
Jack is spared any further explanation by the arrival of Doug. “What do you want?” Doug asks his father.
“Usual,” Dougie replies.
“Where’s your money?”
Dougie checks his pockets. “I’m all out. I don’t know why. I only had a couple in Yates’s.”
Doug knows that Jack has been offered the manager’s job at Prospect—his father let it slip one night when he was drunk. Doug wasn’t surprised by the news. It’s only what he has come to expect from Jack Singleton. Doug has heard all the stories about Jack’s womanizing when he was in the band and all the tricks he used to get up to when he was still a tackler. He’s even heard how Jack was mentioned in dispatches during the retreat from Crete. If there were any justice in the world he’d have had Jack for a father instead of Dougie. Maybe then his mother wouldn’t have walked out. “Can I get you summat, Mr. Singleton? I may as well get them all together. No point in us both queuing.”
“It’s OK, Doug. I’m waiting for our Helen. She should be here in a minute or two. She’s just nipped into one of the shops. Oh, there she is now.” Jack raises his hand and waves.
Doug follows his gaze down towards the beach. Making her way up the street with the sea at her back is a figure dressed in the height of fashion from her skimpy top to her fully flared skirt that swishes round her knees as she walks and kicks out to reveal a sparkling white net underskirt. Her blonde hair gleams against the blue of the sea and her face shines with happiness. Jack and Doug are struck dumb by the transformation. It is left to Dougie to pipe up: “By the left, she’s changed, hasn’t she? I wouldn’t have known her.” Doug stares, open-mouthed. No wonder she didn’t turn up in Yates’s last night. She must have had at least half a dozen better offers. Dougie sneaks a look at Jack. If anything, he looks even more shocked.
When Helen reaches them she smiles at Dougie and says, “Hiya, Dad. Hello, Mr. Fairbrother.” She turns to Doug and he stares back at her like a complete fool.
The chip shop is full. Doug and Helen are forced to queue out on the street and, since they are still within hearing distance of their fathers, Doug keeps his mouth shut. He’s had more than a taste of his father’s mockery in the past and isn’t keen for another dose. The queue shuffles forward over the threshold of the shop. Once safely inside Doug clears his throat and says, “Did you get to Yates’s last night?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t. I expect Connie did, though.”
“Did she have a good night?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her today.”
“You planning to go anywhere tonight?”
Helen is at a loss to know what to say. She can’t face the embarrassment of admitting that she’s not allowed out at night, but there again she can’t think of where she could claim to be going. She eventually settles for a bland “Oh, I don’t know.” As she turns away she feels the net underskirt rustle and crush against Doug’s thigh and is pleased by the sensation.
“I hear you’ve a Saturday job,” Doug says, anxious to keep her talking.
“Yes. I work at Blanche’s on Scotland Road.” Relieved to be on less dangerous ground, Helen rushes on. “I should be working now but I decided to come on holiday instead. Blanche has offered me full time.”
“Will you take it? I heard your dad telling Dougie that you were going to stay on at school.”
Helen shrugs her shoulders and tries to look as if she doesn’t care. She finds Doug’s habit of referring to his father by his first name alternately amusing and unsettling. Doug is standing with his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets. He is so cool and so good-looking. It feels dangerous just standing next to him. When he moves his leather jacket wrinkles and shines, and the heavy collar rubs against his sideburns.
“Have you ever been to the Winter Gardens?” Doug asks.
“Lots of times.” Helen is still easing into the part of an experienced social butterfly. And it is true in a manner of speaking. Helen has seen three Christmas pantomime matinées at the Winter Gardens. On each occasion she was accompanied by the full church Sunday School.
“Lonnie Donegan is on tonight. I’ve got a couple of tickets. Do you fancy going?”
They have reached the head of the queue and Helen feigns deafness as she puts in her order for fish and chips with salt and vinegar. She pays at the counter and waits for the change. Her mind is in overdrive trying to work out a way she can go out with Doug without her parents finding out. But it’s impossible. There isn’t any way that she can manage it. “I can’t,” she says, swallowing hard and looking away.
“Already got a date, have you?”
“Yes. No.” Helen is anxious not to lose Doug’s interest. She is at a loss to know how to turn down the date without either admitting she isn’t allowed out or putting him off completely. “Well, I think I might have. I don’t know,” she concludes.
Doug glares at her and says, “Well, let me know if you ever make your mind up. I won’t be holding my breath.” And with that he turns away and studies the view out of the steamed-up windows.
16
Sea Gooseberry
This little jellyfish looks exactly like a gooseberry except that its body is transparent. It blends into its surroundings and trails two long tentacles through the water to pick up any passing prey. When it moves it shimmers and takes on all the colors of the rainbow. Score 20 points for an invisible gooseberry.
It’s Connie’s turn to serve afternoon tea in the Residents’ Lounge. She rearranges her hair and admires her reflection in the stainless-steel tea urn while she waits for the water to boil. Nobody has ever made love to her like Jack Singleton. Not even Father O’Connell. She’d had to sink three gins and orange last night before she’d had the guts to walk up to Jack when the bloke he was talking to left. After that it had been easy. He didn’t use anything but it doesn’t matter. She had sex with her geography teacher at school loads of times and she never got pregnant by him. It’s only older women who get pregnant, not teenagers like her. Jack is a proper man, not like that idiot Alan Clegg, or Andy who’s been dogging her every step this afternoon. In the end she’d stopped in her tracks, turned round and said, “Look, Andy, I really like you but it’s no good. I’ve already got a bloke and it’s serious.” And she means what she says. It is serious. Connie is convinced that Jack must care for her. How could he not love her after last night? True, he’d got her name mixed up with someone else’s, but anyone could see that Connie and Jack were made for each other.
Connie refused to go out with Andy and the lads after lunch and spent the early afternoon readying herself for her next meeting with Jack. He was a bit short with her at breakfast but all that is forgotten in her preparations for the afternoon. She has dressed carefully, releasing her hair from its usual rubber band, and slipped her feet into her best
stilettos, the ones that will cripple her before the day is out. There’s barely been a break in the rain all day and, as a result, Connie is hoping and praying that Jack will turn up for afternoon tea. There are butterflies in her stomach when she walks into the Residents’ Lounge but she is immediately disappointed. There’s no sign of Jack. Over in the far corner the couple from room sixty-nine, the salesman and his “wife,” are already seated. They’re regulars for the afternoon tea. They throw it down and retire to their room for the rest of the afternoon. The chambermaid is always moaning that she has to change their sheets every day. There’s the old couple from room five. They have to have a room on the ground floor because of her wheelchair. They’re regulars too. Mr. Stansfield wheels his wife along the prom every day after lunch to allow her to take advantage of the health-giving properties of ozone. They’re both ready for a cup of tea come 3:30 p.m. Connie catches sight of Mrs. Clegg and Jack’s wife. Her spirits rise; if Ma Singleton is here it’s likely that Jack will appear. Connie won’t be able to speak to him, not with his wife there, but at least she’ll be able to see him. Connie hurries forward with her tray.
The hotel provides a pot of tea and slices of Victoria sandwich for guests every afternoon. Ruth used to bake this cake on a weekly basis, specifically to annoy Jack’s mother, so she knows how it should taste. She used the finest flour from Canadian wheat—not the sweepings-up her mother-in-law used to call flour. Fresh-laid eggs, not dried. And homemade jam with real fruit, not the commercial stuff that’s all sugar and cochineal. Jack’s mother was horrified by Ruth’s culinary extravagances. As likely as not she’d say, “There are perfectly good results from plain ingredients at half the price, you know, Ruth.” Or, “You’ll not mind if I don’t finish the crust, it’s all a bit too rich for me.” There is, of course, no “crust” on Ruth’s Victoria sandwich—the ingredients have been beaten over a bowl of hot water, whisked to within an inch of their life. As Ruth is fond of telling Jack, “Just because you were brought up on shop-bought doesn’t mean you have to continue missing out.”