Sallie Day - The Palace of Strange Girls

Helen yawns again and says, ‘Is that all? Flippin’ ’eck, Beth. It’s just a membership card. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Don’t start crying. Give it here and get me something to rest it on.’

Beth hands over the card and watches as her sister gets out her white clutch bag. There had been an upset when their mother had first caught sight of the bag. Helen had claimed that it was ‘soiled goods’ that couldn’t be sold at the shop, so Blanche had given it to her for working late one Saturday. Ruth remarked that it didn’t look soiled to her but Helen insisted that it had been and she’d managed to get the mark out of the plastic with soap and water. The truth was somewhat different. Helen had purchased the bag from the brand-new spring range at Freeman Hardy & Willis. She’d have preferred leather but plastic will do – just so as it’s this season’s colour: white. She’d got the money in the form of an unofficial cash bonus from Blanche. Blanche is keen to escape the attentions of the taxman and Helen is equally anxious to avoid her mother getting wind of the extra cash. Helen is expected to hand over her untouched wage packet to her mother every Saturday night. Ruth takes the little brown packet and, having counted out the ten-shilling notes, gives Helen the residue of change back as spending money. It’s called ‘bringing the old cat a mouse’. The sudden appearance of Helen carrying a brand-new bag rattled her mother, who would never dream of buying a white clutch. Ruth makes do with a more serviceable brown handbag with strap handles that she’s had since the war. She was suspicious of Helen’s explanation but limited herself to saying, ‘I don’t know why Blanche let you have a bag. You’ve nothing to put in it.’

‘I’ve got my purse and a handkerchief,’ Helen replied, waiting until her mother was out of hearing before adding, ‘and the rest of my bonus.’

Helen, stung by her mother’s dismissal, has made it her immediate ambition to fill the bag. Her first secret purchase with the hidden money was a miniature diary and notebook from Mayhew’s and she intends to buy a whole range of forbidden items in the future – a lipstick, mascara, powder, maybe even cigarettes. With one pound, two shillings and sixpence the possibilities are well-nigh endless.

Beth is impatient. She pushes the I-Spy book into Helen’s lap and says, ‘Can you write my name and everything? Can you do it now?’

The bag opens with a sophisticated click and Beth watches transfixed as Helen pulls out a tiny gilt case with matching gilt pencil topped with a rubber. The card is thin and creases easily under Beth’s clumsy fingers, but after Helen rubs the paper it’s so clean that there’s barely a trace of Beth’s abortive attempts. When she’s satisfied Helen asks, ‘Do you want it big?’

Beth nods enthusiastically.

Helen picks up the pencil and writes the word SPUTNIK in block capitals. Underneath, where it says address, she writes ‘COAL-’OLE-BY-THE-TOILET, BACKYARD, BLACKBURN’.

Beth’s face is a picture.

‘What’s wrong? That’s your name, isn’t it? It’s what Dad calls you.’

Beth clenches her teeth and her hands bunch into fists. Helen laughs. ‘Well, what do you want to be called then? What shall I write?’

‘Elizabeth Singleton.’

‘Oh, Elizabeth, is it?’

Helen goes into her bag again for her mottled blue Conway Stewart pen with the fat gold nib and begins to write. Helen is nine years older than Beth and her handwriting is beautiful; she puts little circles over her ‘i’s and even draws little flowers inside the letter ‘B’. When she’s finished Beth’s name looks so pretty, so grown up.

Beth is elated. She reads the card avidly until she reaches the space for her Redskin name. She looks up at her sister and points at the blank space. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to fill that in until later,’ Helen remarks. This is true. Beth must fill in every page of I-Spy at the Seaside and send it to Big Chief I-Spy who will send her a certificate and a feather to prove she’s a proper Redskin. Only then can she choose any name she likes. But Beth is impatient – she wants a name now.

‘What about “Little Cloud” or “Laughing Waters”?’ Helen suggests.

Beth looks unconvinced. She wants to be called something frightening. ‘Wolf Teeth’ would be good. Or ‘Growling Bear’. Beth needs to find another club member so that she can join their tribe instead of being by herself all the time. She’s been absent from school for a long time and all the friends she used to know are now friends with someone else. It would be better if Beth could join in at playtime but her mother has told the school that Beth is not allowed to swing, climb, skip or run. As a result Beth just sits and watches at playtime. Waiting for someone to play marbles with her.

Of all the myriad rules there is one above all others that must not be broken. Beth must never, ever, for any reason take off her wool vest. As a result the vest (Ladybird age 5) is Beth’s closest companion. It is only removed once a week when Beth is bathed and is immediately replaced by another vest fresh from the airing cupboard and smelling of Lux soapflakes. In this manner Beth’s shame is kept from the sight of all but her mother.

‘For goodness’ sake, Beth! What are we going to do about your sandals?’ Beth looks down at the scuffed leather. She has had the sandals for six weeks but has only been wearing them since Saturday, the start of the holiday. It seems that only Beth is subject to this particular rule. All Beth’s friends have been wearing their sandals since Easter and Susan Fletcher has been wearing hers even longer. All year round, in fact. But that’s because Susan Fletcher’s mum works and she ‘doesn’t care what state she sends her daughter to school in’. At least that’s what Beth’s mother says.

‘I hate these,’ Beth complains, kicking off her sandals. ‘Only boys wear brown sandals. I didn’t even get to stand on the thing that makes your feet go all green like a skellington.’

‘You mean the X-ray machine. No one will notice they’re brown. Anyway they match your hair,’ says Helen, in a moment of inspiration.

They are interrupted by a sharp rapping at the door. Both girls jump.

‘That’s Mum! Quick, get your sandals on or we’ll both catch it.’

Ruth Singleton, her arms full of clothes, waits in the hallway, her right foot tapping on the varnished floorboards. If her patience is short today it’s due to her husband’s ill-starred attempt at marital intimacy this morning. Surely he can see how she is after all these months of anxiety? But not Jack. No. Jack thinks a bit of early-morning sex is on the menu now they’re on holiday. Ruth had tolerated his caresses until his increasing insistence had forced her to push his hand away and say, ‘Don’t, Jack. I have to get up to get the girls ready.’

He hadn’t said anything, had limited himself to a drawn-out sigh. Ruth felt an answering rush of anger. Does it always have to come down to this?

Ruth is prised from the memory by the sound of the door finally opening. None of this palaver with locks would be necessary if it weren’t for her younger daughter’s recently acquired habit of sleepwalking. This is bad enough at home, but there’s no telling what trouble the seven-year-old might get into in a hotel the size of the Belvedere. In a doomed attempt to allay Mrs Singleton’s worst fears, the hotel manager has sworn on his mother’s life (a lady much missed since her demise three years previously) that the room locks are made by the same firm who supplied the MOD during the war. Even the ‘blasted Hun’ couldn’t breach the security of the Belvedere’s rooms and thus Beth’s habit of going AWOL at night has been curtailed. This desirable state being attained not by the hoped-for Yale lock and chain, but by the effect of damp salt air on turn-of-the-century iron locks. All of which means that Helen must use the combined strength of both hands and the leverage of her shoulder to release the door.