Читать книгу The Palace of Strange Girls - Sallie Day - Страница 9

ICE CREAM

Everyone loves ice cream, especially on a hot day. Where did you buy your ice cream? From a shop or from an ice-cream van parked on the sands? Score 5 points for a big ice cream!

‘Haven’t I seen you working at the dress shop on Penny Street?’ Irene asks when they’re out of earshot. ‘Do you like?’

‘Oh, yes. I love it. I just work Saturdays, but Blanche has offered me full time over the summer.’

‘I thought you were still at school.’

‘I am,’ Helen admits, ‘but I want to leave this summer.’

‘I’ll bet that hasn’t gone down too well with your mother.’

‘No,’ agrees Helen. ‘She goes mad every time I mention it.’

Helen looks closely at her confidante. Mrs Sykes has a look of Debbie Reynolds. Her hair is newly bleached and permed. A professional perm – nothing like the frizzy Toni Home Perm that her mother uses every few months. Mrs Sykes is the last word in style and not a hair out of place, despite the breeze.

‘I got this dress from Kendal’s in Manchester and I bought the hat at the same time. What do you think?’ Mrs Sykes raises a hand to the white feathers that curl round the crown of her head.

‘It’s a lovely dress,’ breathes Helen, ‘and the hat looks nice against your hair.’

Helen knows that the dress alone will have cost the best part of ten guineas. It’s pink with three-quarter-length sleeves and white turn-back cuffs.

‘Thank you.’ Mrs Sykes smiles. ‘That’s quite a compliment from someone who works for Blanche.’

It is Helen’s turn to be flattered. ‘Oh, I’m just the Saturday girl but you’d be surprised how many customers we get in to buy last-minute dresses for their holidays. And lots of them ask me what I think. We’ve barely a rail of summer dresses left. Blanche has had to order more from the suppliers. She’ll have been busy with all the work pressing and pricing up…’

Helen’s voice trails off in disappointment. It is not merely the money she could be earning; she misses the excitement of all the new dresses and the crush of customers all wanting her attention. Helen is treated like an adult from the moment she starts work until the shop shuts and she reluctantly returns home.

‘You must be worth your weight in gold to Blanche.’ Helen smiles and a blush of pleasure advances up her cheeks. ‘Do you get paid a bonus for all the dresses you sell?’ Irene asks.

It is common to discuss money and terribly impolite to ask about anything as personal as wages. Helen would love to tell Mrs Sykes that she gets five per cent on every dress she sells but years of conditioning prevent her.

Helen has a natural aptitude for sales. It is to Helen that Blanche turns for an ‘up-to-date opinion’ when a customer can’t make up her mind between a shot satin decolletage and a backless velvet cocktail dress. It is an unwritten rule that Helen recommends the more expensive gown, thereby maximising Blanche’s profit margin and Helen’s percentage. There has only ever been one exception to the rule. Mrs Taylor came in shortly after Helen started working in the shop. She was in search of an outfit for her daughter’s wedding and was very taken with a bright-blue suit that drew attention to her varicose veins and drained her face of colour. Helen managed to persuade Mrs Taylor into a cheaper floral dress in peach with matching jacket. It was only when she was ringing up the sale that she noticed Blanche looking daggers from the entrance to the dressing rooms. A sharp exchange between owner and assistant followed Mrs Taylor’s triumphant exit from the shop. Despite Helen’s hopes that the customer, content with her purchase, might return to the shop on future occasions Blanche was adamant, ‘That beggar won’t come in again this side of Preston Guild. Eileen Taylor’s a cheapskate. She buys mail order.’

This is the worst insult Blanche can ever bestow. Mail order sells mass-produced ill-fitting summer dresses for a fraction of the price. A thirty-five-shilling dress from Gammage’s Mail Order Catalogue retails at nearer four guineas in the front window of Blanche Fashions. Customers at the shop are provided with a personal fitting service undertaken by a qualified member of staff (Eva during the week and Helen on Saturdays). Their purchases are lovingly folded in tissue paper to prevent undue creasing and placed reverentially in a candy-striped box with pink rope carrier handles. Certain clients, due to their long-standing custom or the professional nature of their husbands’ work, are deemed worthy of the personal attention of Blanche herself. Such was Blanche’s fury following Mrs Taylor’s purchase that Helen was forced to stay late to sponge face-powder stains off necklines and press various garments before returning them to their hangers. Helen would have had to stay longer had she not pricked her finger while mending a hem ripped earlier by a careless stiletto. It wouldn’t have mattered if the dress had been black, but Blanche, terrified of getting blood on the cream crêpe de Chine, snatched the dress out of Helen’s weary grasp and dismissed her with a wave.

‘What do you spend your wages on? Do you get cut-price dresses?’ Mrs Sykes asks.

‘No. I mean I could if I asked, but Mum thinks the sort of dresses Blanche sells are too old for me. Anyway, I’m saving up for a Dansette record player.’

‘Oh, do you like Cliff?’

‘He’s OK, but I like Bobby Darin better. He’s gorgeous. I wish I could see him.’

‘It was rock and roll night at the Mechanics’ Institute last Friday. You should have gone. They were playing all the hit parade. Tommy Steele, Cliff Richards, Billy Fury.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Mechanics’ – there’s a bar on Fridays, isn’t there?’

‘They wouldn’t throw you out, you know. It’s mostly teenagers that go there.’

‘Oh, well, I normally go to the Methodist youth club on Fridays.’ Irene Sykes bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, poor you! I don’t suppose they allow any dancing there, do they?’

‘Well, you couldn’t anyway. There’s no record player. But there’s table tennis and the only reason they don’t allow darts is in case someone gets hurt.’

‘They’re a po-faced lot, the Methodists. Don’t crack a smile from one year’s end to the next. I’ll bet they have you hymn singing every five minutes, don’t they?’

Helen shakes her head. ‘We don’t sing hymns but there’s a prayer at the end. After we’ve said the Lord’s Prayer, that is.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Anyway, I heard Bobby Darin is coming to do a concert in Manchester next year. It’ll be expensive. You’ll have to get your dad to buy tickets. You’ll have loads of money if your dad is made manager at Prospect. I expect he’s up for the job, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know. Dad never talks about work.’

Mrs Sykes looks into the wide innocence of Helen’s face and changes tack. ‘I’ll bet you have a lot of fun working at the shop. You must hear all the gossip.’

Helen smiles. ‘No. Not really.’ It has been drummed into Helen that it is common to gossip. This is a source of frustration to her since there is nothing more intimately satisfying than information shared with another woman. Confusingly, Helen is invited to retell gossip at home to her mother, but only when her sister and father are absent. Even when she tells her mother what has been happening in the shop Ruth, having listened carefully, doesn’t react as she should. Helen’s stories fail to elicit a single gasp or squeal of amusement from her mother. Ruth will only shake her head and say ‘It’s a disgrace’, and carry on washing up. Mrs Sykes, on the other hand, looks like a woman who would appreciate stories garnered from the shop. It’s a temptation.

‘I hear Mrs Booth is spending like it’s going out of fashion. I saw her last Wednesday coming out of that fancy hairdresser’s on Scotland Road and carrying four bags from Blanche’s. She must have spent a fortune.’ Mrs Sykes pauses in the hope of Helen volunteering further information.

‘I don’t know. I’m not there during the week.’

‘Haven’t you heard? She’s only come up on the pools! Her husband was too drunk to do it on Tuesday, so she filled the coupon herself – and she won! When he’d sobered up he was furious. Demanded all the money because it was his name on the coupon. When she refused he tried to get her drunk and steal it.’

Mrs Booth, thin as a stick and a committed member of both the Methodist Mothers’ Club and the Temperance Society, is known locally for her aversion to all the sins and vices that afflict her fellow man. When Mrs Booth is on youth club duty she won’t even let them mess about on the piano in case they play the boogie woogie or, worse, rock and roll. The idea of Mrs Booth filling in a pools coupon of all things is too much for Helen who, despite her best efforts, starts to laugh.

‘And that woman who lives on Reedley Road… what’s her name? Irishwoman – smokes like a chimney. Donahue. Mrs Donahue. She got into a fight in the chip shop and laid out the assistant. Talk about “fryin’ tonight”.’ Irene winks, nudges Helen in the ribs and both of them burst out laughing.

Helen watches as Mrs Sykes opens her white leather handbag and takes out a Stratton compact. She flips the lid open and powders her nose while Helen looks on, filled with admiration and envy in equal amounts. Mrs Sykes’s handbag overflows with sophistication. Besides a well-filled floral make-up bag, there’s a packet of tipped cigarettes, a special back combing brush, nail clippers and a bottle of Soir de Paris perfume. Mrs Sykes takes her appearance seriously.

When they reach the head of the queue Helen, mindful of her complexion, refuses the offer of an ice cream. Mrs Sykes orders and pays for the most expensive ice cream available for Beth before Helen can stop her. Purchase completed, Irene and Helen head back. It is 11.30 and the beach is packed. Helen has read in the paper that a quarter of a million visitors have arrived in the resort this week and, by the look of it, they’ve all headed for the beach. There isn’t a clear patch of sand to be seen between the striped deckchairs, windbreaks, sunburnt bodies and discarded clothes. Irene and Helen thread their way through a cheerful, noisy crowd of mill workers and their families breathing in boisterous lung-fuls of ozone instead of coal dust and cotton lint. Progress is slow. Both women are forced to step over bags and towels, inch round windbreaks and skirt a confusion of deckchairs and sunbathers. Frustrated, Irene guides Helen to the water’s edge where the only obstacles are paddlers and the odd sandcastle. Once they are free of the crowd Irene asks, ‘Do you see anything of Cora Lloyd? She’s a friend of your mother’s, isn’t she? Or is Cora too posh nowadays for Blanche’s shop?’

‘Oh no, she comes in a lot.’ Helen is anxious to defend Cora, whom she has known and loved since she was a child.

‘You’re lucky to see her. I sometimes wonder where she’s hiding herself; I see so little of her nowadays.’

This is not quite true. Such is Irene’s fascination with Cora that she tries to bump into her as often as possible. If there were any justice, Irene would see her every Tuesday at the Baby Clinic. Cora Lloyd has flattened enough grass in her time for it to be suspicious that she never falls pregnant. Irene’s special interest in Cora dates back to before the war. Harry and Irene hadn’t been courting very long when Cora made a play for him one night at the Red Lion. Irene was forced to confront Cora in the ladies’ lavatory. She had, Irene argued, no right to be flirting with Harry when everybody knew he was ‘spoken for’. Cora didn’t bat an eyelid. She carried on powdering her nose and fixing her lipstick until Irene felt a fool standing there waiting for a reply. When at last Cora did speak it was to tell Irene that she wouldn’t touch Harry with a bargepole. Cora could ‘do a damn sight better than Harry Sykes’.

True to her word, Cora had married Ronald Lloyd – deputy manager at Barclays Bank – before the war was over. She thereby gained entry into an exclusive social circle that Irene would kill to be a part of. However, all attempts to get on to genial terms with Cora following her marriage have been marked by failure. Cora is not forthcoming. Irene is painfully aware that Ruth Singleton is always invited to Cora’s parties, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone trying to get anything out of Ruth. Irene thinks she stands a better chance with Helen.

‘I remember when Cora was Cotton Queen,’ Irene begins. ‘Oh, long before you were born.’

‘I didn’t know she was a Cotton Queen.’

‘Oh, yes. She was the talk of the town. All the men thought she was a real catch. It’s amazing she stayed single as long as she did. Do you know her husband?’

‘Yes, he comes in the shop sometimes.’ Helen is familiar with Ronald Lloyd and she dislikes him intensely. He always tries to fumble her while Cora is busy with Blanche in the dressing room. It is hard to tell which is worse, her embarrassment or her disgust. Mr Lloyd is quick on his feet despite his size. He creeps up behind Helen at every opportunity with his sweaty hands and his unctuous smile.

‘I hear she’s been poorly,’ Irene continues.

‘Has she?’ ‘Well, I’ve not seen her out and about for a bit. When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Last Saturday. She was in to buy dresses for her holiday.’

‘I bet she bought loads.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘What were they like? I bet they were gorgeous. Strapped sundresses?’

‘No, she didn’t look at the sundresses. She was trying on dresses with matching jackets.’

Mrs Sykes looks shocked. ‘Where is she going on her holidays? Somewhere nice, I bet. Certainly not Blackpool.’

‘Blanche said she was going to the Costa Brava.’

‘That’s Spain, isn’t it? That’ll have cost a pretty penny. Well, she’ll not be needing a jacket, it’s supposed to be boiling hot there, isn’t it? Blanche must have misheard.’

‘No.’

‘Then why would she cover herself up like that? With her figure it doesn’t make sense.’

Helen thinks back. Cora had been in the dressing rooms when Helen had poked her head round the curtain to tell Blanche that the rep was asking for her. It was little more than a brief glimpse but Helen saw that Cora’s right shoulder and arm looked bruised. Helen hadn’t thought any more about it until Blanche had given her Cora’s purchases to wrap. Four summer dresses with matching jackets or long-sleeved boleros. Cora has an account at the shop and Helen had watched her struggle to sign her name in the book. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she had asked.

‘Just a fall. I shouldn’t be so clumsy,’ Cora had replied and that was the end of the conversation. Cora had arranged for the bags to be delivered and she’d left.

‘She said she’d had a fall,’ Helen says.

‘A fall? Poor Cora. Was she badly bruised?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But she is bruised. I knew it. That husband of hers is knocking her about.’

There’s a note of triumph in Mrs Sykes’s voice that makes Helen uncomfortable.

‘It was nothing. Just her right arm.’

‘You mean that’s all she’ll admit to.’

Helen purses her lips and resolves to say nothing more. The rest of the walk is conducted in silence.

Beth hates everything about the beach, from the concrete ripples of sand that hurt her feet to the sting of salt water. No trip to the sands is complete without her bucket and spade. The red-painted bucket used to belong to Helen and is rusted at the bottom with the residue of many summers’ salt water. The handle is a thick ridge of flaking tin that cuts into Beth’s fingers when she carries a load of water back from the waves at the edge of the beach. Although the top rim of the bucket is rolled over, the bottom edge is as sharp as a knife. The bucket bangs against the front of her thighs when she hauls it back from the water’s edge. The long spade is worse. When Beth grasps it halfway up the wooden haft the tin spade still takes the skin off the back of her heel as she drags it across the sand or cuts into her instep when she tries to dig. Playing on the beach is an activity that other children enjoy. Beth watches them building sandcastles, playing with beach balls and screaming as they run into the waves. This morning’s misery is interrupted by the return of her sister and Mrs Sykes.

‘Here, young lady. I’ve got you a proper ice cream. There! I’ll bet you’ve not seen one of those before,’ Mrs Sykes says with some satisfaction.

Beth nods dumbly. She hasn’t. Two scoops in a double cornet – chocolate one side and strawberry on the other. Beth’s wrist strains with the effort of holding it upright.

Ruth is momentarily thrown by the sheer extravagance and then annoyed. ‘That’s far too much. You shouldn’t have bought such a big one,’ she says, pointing to the offending ice cream. ‘I’d have thought you’d know how bad ice cream is for children’s teeth. Not to mention the danger of a chill.’

‘A chill? In this weather? What are you thinking of? Come on, pet, get it eaten before it melts.’

Both women stare at the child. Beth is anxious to please. She opens her mouth to take a big bite.

‘You’ll be sick,’ Ruth says. And, as if by magic, Beth feels her throat rise. She is sitting cross-legged at her father’s feet, in full view. There is nowhere to hide. Trickles of pink ice cream run from the soggy cornet and gather round her wrist and still she is watched.

‘Hurry up and eat it before it melts. I shall be in bother with your mother if you get it all over your clothes.’

Beth takes a lick. Mrs Sykes smiles.

‘Have you said thank you, Elizabeth?’

‘Thank you very much, Mrs Sykes.’

‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’

Another drool of melted ice slithers down her thumb. Unable to win the argument, Ruth takes up her knitting with increased ferocity. Although Beth has her back to her mother she can still feel the backwash of maternal fury. Beth’s wrist is beginning to ache from the strain. The twin scoops will topple from their temporary mooring on the cornet unless Beth keeps the whole monstrous confection upright. Above her head Mr and Mrs Sykes make preparations to leave and she is forgotten. With infinite care Beth moves forward on to her knees and crawls round the back of her father’s deckchair. She scoops a big hole in the sand with one hand and, with the other, she buries the ice cream. When she crawls back round she catches her mother’s eye. Experience has taught Beth that, under these circumstances, it’s best to keep her head down and her mouth shut until the storm passes.