Sallie Day - The Palace of Strange Girls

Beth and Red Hawk watch as Gunner bolts past them in the direction of the hotel kitchens. ‘I’ll get him for you,’ says Red Hawk, loading his bow with the remaining arrow and aiming at the dog’s retreating backside.

‘No,’ shouts Beth, grabbing the arrow. ‘I’ll never make friends with him if you hurt him.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ volunteers Red Hawk. ‘That bugger bloody bit me when I pulled his tail. I wouldn’t care but it were only a joke.’

Back in the dining room, Connie is clearing the tables. She and Helen have become good friends over the past few days. They can be found giggling together in a corner somewhere most mornings once the dining room empties. Connie sneaks a swift cigarette and a milky coffee, while Helen listens open-mouthed to the waitress’s salacious account of the previous evening’s activities. Connie is forever encouraging Helen to accompany her on these soirées but so far she has drawn a blank. She may be a couple of months younger but she has a wealth of experience hitherto denied Helen. Even Helen’s Saturday job in a dress shop can’t compete with Connie’s obvious experience.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ whispers Connie at her most confidential. ‘Kitchen and dining-room staff get two hours off every afternoon. We all go out together. Why don’t you come with us? We usually meet up at the pier for a drink and a laugh. It’s a scream. Andy bought me four Babychams yesterday afternoon and I was seeing double by the time I got back.’

‘I can’t,’ Helen says. ‘I’m not allowed on the pier.’

‘What? Even during the day? Hellfire! My dad’s in Strangeways and even he gets let out every now and again.’

Helen is embarrassed. Not just because her parents treat her like a child but also for her friend having a dad in prison, but it doesn’t seem to bother Connie.

‘You’re lucky to have a dad like yours. He’s great, isn’t he?’ Connie sighs and casts a glance over at Jack.

‘He’s OK, I suppose. He’s not as strict as my mother.’

‘She’s like bloody Hitler. However did she get her claws into your dad? I mean, he’s good-looking enough to get anyone he wanted. He doesn’t even look old, does he?’ Connie changes the subject when she sees the look of disbelief on Helen’s face. ‘Anyway, what’s the gossip about that new bloke?’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Wonderful in the check shirt on your old table. Go on, what’s the gossip? Spill the beans, Helen.’

‘I don’t know a lot – he’s called Alan and he works for an accountant.’

‘Oh, very fancy! Did you see him flashing his wallet around?’

‘Yes.’ Helen is awestruck by such a display of wealth.

‘I saw him. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

Helen blushes. ‘Well, I’m not interested in him. Well, I mean, he’s all right.’

‘Would you go out with him if he asked?’

‘I might.’

‘I thought you said you had a boyfriend at home?’

‘I have,’ Helen replies, trying to sound casual. She has been forced to invent a boyfriend with whom she is ‘going steady’ in order to deflect Connie’s constant queries as to why she doesn’t go out at night.

‘Ah, well, a bit on the side won’t do any harm. What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over. That’s what my mum always says when she’s out with a new bloke. I’ll bet Mr Wonderful over there would give his right arm to take you out. Oh, God! He’s looking this way.’

Helen is forced to put her hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter. Far away, at the other end of the dining room, Alan looks on.

‘I know what! If you can’t come on the pier with me why don’t we go to that new coffee bar?’

‘Where?’ Helen asks.

‘Rico’s. That one on Victoria Street, just behind the Tower. I went there with Andy last week – he’d fixed it so that we both had the same day off. There’s a great jukebox and they serve that frothy coffee. Your mum can’t object to you having a cup of coffee, can she? Let’s go this afternoon.’

‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘You know where my room is, don’t you? Through the Staff door in the lobby, down the stairs and it’s on the right. I’ll see you there at half past two.’

‘I know Blackburn like the back of my hand,’ Florrie says. ‘Which part of the town do you come from?’

‘Oh, we’re on the outskirts,’ Ruth replies as she hurries to finish her tea.

‘Oh?’ Florrie thinks she might have cottoned on to something. The silence that follows is deafening. When it’s obvious that Ruth has no intention of supplying further details Florrie starts again: ‘You’re a long way out of the centre, are you? A terrace, is it?’

Ruth nods by way of reply. She neglects to mention that the house is an end terrace. It is not in Ruth’s nature to be boastful, particularly with strangers. Both women know perfectly well that there’s a class hierarchy in terraced life. The further out of town, the better the terrace. The Singletons own an end terrace. It might as well be a semi. Ruth has only one immediate neighbour – although with the noise the Kerkleys make it sometimes sounds as if she’s got more. The Singletons’ end terrace is situated at the tree-lined town boundary, overlooking the town below and the moors beyond. It is, to quote the estate agent Ruth has had round recently, ‘a little gem’.

‘I lived on Le-banon Street before I was wed,’ Florrie volunteers. Ruth’s face is a picture of restraint. ‘They’re a good crowd on Lebanon,’ Florrie continues.

Ruth bites her lip. She is not only capable of pronouncing the name Lebanon correctly, she could point to the country on a map and quote freely from the Bible on the subject.

‘So, whereabouts on the tops are you? Anywhere near the Black Bull?’

It is a common habit locally to tie the location of anything in the town to the nearest pub. Ruth is not prey to this habit. She allows herself a vague ‘m-m-m’ as she replaces her cup in the saucer.

‘Oh, they’re all pastry forks and bay windows up there, aren’t they? Wouldn’t suit me. No, I like to be in the thick of things. I like to know what’s going on. Don’t you find it a nuisance being so far out of town? It means a lot of travelling,’ Florrie says as she’s sweetening her Alan’s second cup of tea for him.

‘It’s nice and quiet on the tops,’ Ruth replies, biting back the urge to say that it’s worth a six-penny bus journey to be away from dirty backstreets and the stink of mill chimneys.

‘There,’ Florrie says after she’s taken an exploratory sip, ‘that’s just nice.’ She passes the sweetened cup of tea over to Alan. Ruth can sense her nose turning up. She’s seen her mother do it countless times for her father; indeed, Ruth might have sweetened and sipped Jack’s tea herself had she not seen the light at night school. Quite apart from what constitutes good table manners, the practice is unhealthy and encourages the migration of germs. Elizabeth Craig is adamant about this.

‘They’re building some new houses up there, aren’t they?’ Florrie remarks casually.

‘Where?’

‘Up on the Boundary. Three-bedroom semis. I told Fred, I said, “They’ll never sell them! Who’d pay a fortune to live that far out of town?” It’s not even a local builder, is it?’

‘No, I don’t think it is.’

Florrie gives Ruth a shrewd look and says, ‘Got your eye on one of them, have you?’

This is an understatement. Ruth has not only got an eye on one of the new semis, she’s got a copy of the plans and the deposit as well. Not that she would ever admit to this. Talk of the semi involves two forbidden subjects: family and money. Ruth gets up from the table, anxious to make her escape.