Sallie Day - The Palace of Strange Girls

Helen is deeply moved. It is terrible to think that her idol was brought up in a slum. Helen sometimes comes home from school with a bit of ink on her cuff and her mother always shouts, ‘Take that blouse off this minute. Anybody would think you’d been brought up in a slum.’

Helen’s grandma Catlow lives on Bird Street and her mother says the house is no better than a slum. This is why Helen only ever sees her grandma once a year at Christmas when Mum brings her up on the bus from Bird Street to visit. Still, it’s nice that Bobby has such a close, loving family. The only thing that hits Helen square in the mouth when she walks in after school is the smell of polish and the sound of her mother scrubbing.

Bobby doesn’t think school is up to much. He says, ‘You don’t know people or life through books. You learn by living and doing. You gotta go out in the world.’

Helen couldn’t agree more. Bobby says that when he told his mother he wasn’t going back to school she was disappointed, but she didn’t try to stop him. He told her, ‘Mom, it’s time I got out to see what makes it tick.’ Helen wishes she could leave school and get a job like Connie, but she doubts that her mother will let her. She looks again at the picture of Bobby. She caught sight of him yesterday on the television at the hotel. He was singing his hit song ‘Splish Splash’ followed by his new record, ‘Dream Lover’. Bobby Darin has been Helen’s dream lover ever since the moment she saw his photo on the front of Boyfriend magazine. He’s half Italian and you can tell. He’s got dark wavy hair and a brilliant smile. He’s a great dancer too. Not like the boys at school.

The memory of her last school soirée is still fresh in Helen’s mind. Not that it was any different from usual – the girls sitting on forms at one side of the gym and all the boys standing around at the other side. There was the usual mad rush when the music started, the thunder of pumps across the wooden floor as the boys raced across to grab the best girls. Helen had hoped that David Cooper, with his shock of strawberry-blond hair and black winkle-picker boots, might ask her to dance, but Hanson had got to her first. It happens every year – Hanson runs for East Lancs Schoolboys. Helen was refusing to dance even as Hanson was dragging her into the centre of the gym. As a result Helen spent the first part of the evening limping around the floor in the clutches of Hanson and the latter part watching in despair as her best friend Susan monopolised David Cooper. It would have been so different if Bobby had been there.

‘I hear the bastards are looking for a new manager at your place.’

Jack is familiar with Harry’s habit of referring to the mill owners as bastards and, under normal circumstances, barely bats an eyelid. But Ruth is easily offended and has a bee in her bonnet about bad language, especially in front of the girls. Jack looks pointedly at his daughters before giving Harry a warning glance and saying, ‘Aye. Tom Brierley finished last Friday.’

‘Irreplaceable, that one,’ Harry mutters, ‘they’ll not find another crawler that fast.’

Jack sighs and shakes his head. It was Brierley who refused to have Harry back as foreman after the war, so the company shifted Sykes to Alexandria Mill. Harry took it badly. Alexandria still has the old looms and as a result weaves tea towels rather than the fancy work that’s done in the weaving shed where Jack works. Even promotion to head foreman at Alexandria Mill failed to sweeten the pill where Harry was concerned – he was, as he was always at pains to point out, still being paid less than what he would have got if he’d stayed put. Worse, Jack replaced him as foreman at Prospect. All this has resulted in the relationship between Jack and Harry Sykes being strained, to say the least. If there’s a smile on Harry’s face at the moment it’s because he’s after something. ‘Any idea who’s taking over?’ he asks.

‘No idea,’ Jack replies, squinting at the sea and opening his paper.

‘I suppose we’ll find out when the bosses are good and ready.’

‘Aye.’

‘It’s a puzzle, though,’ Harry persists. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since I heard Brierley was finishing, but there’s been nothing in the paper. I asked that Union bloke… what’s his name? Tom Bell. I asked him, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. Claims he’s no idea who’ll get the job. I wouldn’t mind a shot at it myself. A damn sight more money than Alexandria. Bastards must have it sewn up. I reckon one of the family will take over, what do you think? There must be a useless uncle or idiot cousin somewhere who’s after a slice of the cake.’ Harry throws the question casually, but he’s watching for Jack’s reaction.

‘Aye, probably you’re right.’

‘They’ve always kept management in the family. Up until Brierley. And Brierley wouldn’t have got the job if both Foster brothers hadn’t jumped ship when war was declared. They viewed World War II from the comfort of their London club along with the rest of the fireside fusiliers. And Brierley wasn’t slow to cash in. God knows how much he made in bribes from cowards keen to be designated “reserved occupation”.’

Jack has heard all this before. Some people haven’t moved on since the war – instead of looking ahead to the sixties they seem to be still stuck in the forties. Jack is usually optimistic, always looking to the future but things have changed. The letter in his back pocket has drawn him back into the past so effectively that he struggles even to remain in the present moment, let alone consider the future. Jack suppresses a sigh and says, ‘Weather’s not bad, is it?’

‘Looks to me as if it’s spoiling for rain later. I hear you had a rough do last week. Little bird told me that you very nearly had a walk-out.’

‘It was nothing. Just a few troublemakers.’

‘Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You were bound to get trouble the minute you brought those Pakis in.’

‘The Pakistanis are doing the jobs that no one else wants, so they’re not taking anyone’s job. They’re working the night shift because no one else will.’

‘Well, I warned you. I said you’d regret the day you let foreigners in. They don’t know the first thing about weaving. You’ve got your regular weavers coming in of a morning and not able to do a decent day’s work. Those Pakis on night shift leave their looms in a right state. They’re either broken or choked with muck. How are the day shift ever going to make a decent wage if half their looms are out of action? They’re standing around waiting for a tackler to fix the mess. It’s why I won’t take on Pakis, I wouldn’t even let them sweep the mill yard. They’re all the same. More trouble than they’re worth.’

‘They’re not all the same.’

‘Well, they look it. Can you tell the difference between one Paki and another? It’s beyond me.’

‘They’re not all Pakistanis. Some of them are Sikhs from the Punjab or Muslims from Bangladesh.’

‘There’s no difference. They were all swinging in trees before they came here and made a beeline for the National Assistance. Fuckin’ Fosters – they draft in all these wogs and expect the British workers to lay out the welcoming mat. Buggers that were happy to work all hours for a bowl of rice back in India – no wonder they think they’re well off when they get here. And once they are here, this bloody country will keep them for the rest of their lives, one way or another. No wonder the minute they get here they’re filling in the forms to bring across their whole bloody tribe.’

Jack has heard this argument countless times and it never fails to annoy him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Pakistanis. I’ve not had any bother with them. They’re quiet, they work hard and keep themselves to themselves. Our weavers aren’t beyond sabotaging their looms before the night shift comes on and they don’t complain. And I’ve yet to see a Pakistani turn up to work still drunk from the night before.’