The Palace of Strange Girls Read online

  “You’d better take one for yourself out of it,” Jack says as an afterthought.

  “Thanks,” she says, flashing him a brilliant smile.

  They both retreat from the bar with their drinks and stand at the edge of the crush. Jack, deliberately ignoring Connie’s cleavage, is at a loss to know what to say. Happily Connie knows exactly what she wants. “Have you seen Doug tonight?”

  “Doug?”

  “About my age. Brown hair, leather jacket. Beth says you work with him.”

  “Oh, you mean Doug Fairbrother.”

  “That’s him.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Jack says. “Who did you come with?”

  “No one. The lads from the hotel are all over at the Laughing Donkey.”

  “I should get over there if I were you. It’s a bit of a rough shop, this. For a girl on her own, I mean.”

  “Oh, I’ll give it a bit longer I think.”

  “Well, I hope Doug turns up. Anyway I’ll keep an eye open for you. I’ll be over there.” Jack points to the table in the corner where Tom Bell is looking increasingly impatient for his pint.

  Unknown to both of them the youth in question has already poked his head round the bar door and, seeing Jack Singleton in conversation with Connie, has given up hope of bumping into Helen and beaten a hasty retreat.

  Jack threads his way through the crowd to Tom’s table and puts down both pints with a sigh.

  “Reckoned I’d lost you there for a moment,” Tom says.

  “What?”

  “I reckoned you’d be happier spending the evening with the redhead.”

  “Give over, she’s a friend of Helen’s.”

  “Aye, well, you’ll find they’re the worst,” Tom remarks with a wink.

  “Are we drinking or just gassing?”

  “A bit of both. Cheers, Jack.”

  Tom has been fitted with a new pair of dentures. He still had his own gnashers before the war, but the Italian campaign put the kibosh on his teeth along with his chest. False teeth were the only option after he was demobilized. The bottom set of National Health teeth are so loose they require some clever tongue and lip maneuvering to keep them in place. Tom’s conversation is interrupted on a regular basis by discreet attempts to wedge the bottom plate more securely into his jaw. Pronunciation of the letter “l” is fraught with danger and his “s”s whistle like the wind in the fireback on a winter’s night. It would be easier to give up the fight and manage without dentures, but Tom still retains a shred of vanity. Despite being well over fifty he can nevertheless make women blush with pleasure. He makes out it’s a terrible burden, this ability to charm the women. Blames it on the Union—having to talk to all those women weavers late at night. It never fails to make Jack laugh.

  They sup the best part of their pints talking of this and that. Tom asks after Ruth, wants to know how Beth is after the operation and whether Helen is going to stay on at school. Jack admires Tom; even when they disagree over tactics the old man still manages to retain Jack’s respect. Tom has been area rep for the Union since before the war. He is absolutely committed to the Union and members’ rights. Jack has seen him speak for upwards of an hour, take questions from the floor, deal with the barracking from the hotheads and then pack up and move on to the next mill—and the next set of angry workers and obstinate management. They met when Jack heard him speak at the WEA on the future of the Socialist movement. Tom gave him a book by Marx, told him to read it and then tell him the Labour Party was Socialist in the true sense of the word. “They’re a bunch of phonies, Jack,” Tom had said at the time. “They wouldn’t know Socialism if it got up and bit them on the arse.”

  Since that time Jack has read every book that Tom has suggested. Today is no exception. He’s not been sat down two minutes when Tom says, “Here, Jack, take a look at this.”

  Jack turns the book over and reads the title: The Uses of Literacy by Richard Hoggart. “Never heard of him.”

  “Me neither, but he’s a good read. Better than Orwell at any rate. It knocked me sick to read him ranting on about ‘working-class decency.’ You’ll not see a lot of that when there’s no wage coming in. Hoggart is a sight less sentimental.”

  “So what does this bloke think is wrong with society?”

  “Consumerism, that’s what. You’ve only to look in any shop window to see that there’s a spending boom going on. Hoggart has a profound contempt for all this constant greed for material goods. He thinks we need to get back to real values instead of forever pushing for the latest fad. Everyone wants to fill their houses with white goods nowadays. And that bugger Macmillan”—Tom points to the picture of the Prime Minister on the front of his copy of the Daily Herald—“is cheering them on. He’s just shooting his mouth off again. He says we’ve never had it so good—it says here that two out of every three families own a television. Just because these politicians can point to some parts of British industry that are doing well, they think they can forget about cotton. I mean, what’s the point of announcing all this expansion in the building industry? They’re only building fancy new houses for people who’ve got the wage to buy them. There’s thousands of weavers in Lancashire with no hope of paying the next week’s rent, let alone collecting the money to put down on a house of their own.”

  Jack stares at his pint, Ruth’s demands still ringing in his ears. “This new Cotton Act is going to shake things up a bit,” he says, keen to change the subject.

  “Aye. Government has finally come up with an idea how to solve the cotton problem. It’s easy. Just get rid of it, shut the mills. We’ve lost just short of 20,000 looms in the last twelve months—at this rate there’ll be no industry left in seven years. And in case there are any buggers left who actually want to carry on weaving they’ll be finished off anyway with all the foreign competition. They’re calling it ‘modernization of the industry’ when it’s nothing better than ‘Scrap and Shut.’”

  “But how can it be ‘Scrap and Shut’ when there’s going to be grants for modernization?”

  “Modernization? What good is that when they’re planning to lose 100,000 looms? These new Northrop looms mean that one weaver can run twenty-four looms instead of six on the old system. And there’s none of the stoppage problems. Same amount of material, less than half the workforce. Where’s the point in losing all that skilled labor? They’ve been going on about paying mill owners compensation for the loss of the old machines. Doesn’t occur to them to pay weavers any compensation for losing their jobs, does it? If the government can afford to pay the owners compensation, why the hell can’t they fork out for the weavers who’ve been running the looms all their working lives? They’re still arguing that redundancy is the owners’ problem, not theirs. Parliament won’t touch any move to make redundancy payments compulsory. There’s too many big hitters in the House who’ve made their money from paying workers a pittance.”

  “I heard that the Union signed an agreement with the industry last week to pay some of the workers compensation.”

  “They had to—the government has stipulated that none of the payouts to the employers can be used towards redundancy,” Tom replies. “It sounds a decent deal, but if you look at the small print and get-out clauses you can reckon that less than half the workers are going to get anything. No, all the real money is to go on new Northrop Automatic machines. Anyway, I’ve not come here to argue the toss over modernization. I’ve come to see if you’ve made up your mind yet whether or not to take over my job when I move down to Head Office in London.”

  “There’s no easy answer, Tom. It’s not as simple as it looks.”

  “Why not? This is a real opportunity, Jack. A chance to make a difference—not just at Fosters but in Union policy in general. More money than you’re getting at the moment, travel expenses that’ll cover the cost of a car. It’ll suit you down to the ground—lots of traveling and not having to see the same old faces every day. You know how long we’ve been pushing for improvements? Bloody year
s. And nothing’s happened—and nothing will until we get a few more like you working at higher Union level, making their voices heard.”

  “I don’t know about that, Tom. I spent last Wednesday night at the local meeting listening to the usual backbiting, arguing and time wasting. These meetings go on for hours and finish with meaningless resolutions that pander to every view and satisfy no one.”

  “But you’re talking about local level. You get a totally different perspective at area level. It’s a different ball game altogether—there’s none of this shop floor tussling.”

  “Aye, you’re right. They’re well away from the shop floor. They’re busy making decisions for a workforce they no longer recognize and barely understand.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Jack. What’s happened to workers’ rights? You need national policy to secure them—national policy steered by area input. We’ll survive this dip. We need to resist the closures. Strike if need be.”

  “Striking is no good! How strong is the Union with half its members on the dole? No, Tom. The Union will do what it has always done. It’ll bleat a bit and then it’ll announce that it’s going to protect all the jobs that are left. Management closed Portsmouth Mill with twenty-four hours’ notice. The Union hadn’t even got out of bed.”

  “So you’re selling out, are you, Jack? You’re going to take up Fosters’ offer. Manager of Prospect Mill and bugger the rest.”

  Jack glares at Tom, resisting the urge to get up and walk out. “No. I’m not saying bugger the rest. I haven’t made my mind up yet. I just sometimes wonder if management have a better chance of turning the industry round than the Union.”

  “God help us! Going to be the first mill manager with a social conscience, are you?”

  Jack ignores the crack. “I didn’t say that. The truth is that without new markets there’s no industry. And without modernization there’s no future for the industry. It’s as simple as that. We need to get the owners to start investing in the search for new fabrics. We can import cotton cheaper than we can make it. We need to look to the future. That’s what the Union should be doing, instead of harping on about the past. Anybody can see that if the market takes off following this modernization the workforce will be able to call the shots, return on their terms, redundancy payments and minimum wage included.”

  “You can invent new fabrics till kingdom come. You won’t better Lancashire cotton.”

  “Fosters are going to take a leaf out of ICI’s book. They’re going to start experimenting with new types of material.”

  “How can you say that when it’s bloody nylon that’s caused half the problem in the first place? Fosters offering you a bonus for every weaver you get shut of? I suppose they think workers will take the sack better from you.”

  There’s an angry silence broken at last by Tom, who gets to his feet and says, “It’s getting crowded in here. I think I’ll have a walk over to the Albion. It’s bound to be a bit quieter there. Are you comin’?”

  “No, Tom. I’ll leave it. I should be getting back. Ruth’s waiting.”

  Looking up, he sees the ill-disguised contempt on Tom’s face and struggles to defuse it. “Anybody would think she’s got me on a string,” Jack says with a self-deprecating smile.

  “A bloody ball and chain more like,” Tom snaps as he’s walking away.

  The idea that he is tied hand and foot to Ruth offends Jack’s dignity. He reaches forward and snatches up his pint, leans back in his seat and glares at Tom’s retreating back.

  Jack finishes the rest of his pint in a single swallow and is reaching for his jacket when Connie appears. “You’re not going, are you? I’ve just got a couple of drinks. I can’t drink both, can I? Come on, I owe you one.”

  Jack looks doubtful. But it’s still early and won’t do any harm to stay a bit longer. At least that way there’s no chance he’ll bump into Tom on the way back. Connie sees Jack hesitate and promptly sits down. “I’m surprised you’ve nothing better to do. What happened to your date?”

  “Stood me up, didn’t he?”

  “Well, there’s plenty more fish.”

  “I know and I think I just might have spotted one.” Connie relaxes back in her chair and gives him a calculated smile. “Anyway, who was that you were talking to?”

  “Oh, he’s a bloke I know from work.”

  “He left in quite a temper, didn’t he? I’d better watch my step with you. I’m a bit on the timid side, you know.”

  She gives Jack a look that makes a nonsense of her words and Jack laughs despite himself. “You’re all right, I won’t bite. It’s Connie, isn’t it? How long have you been working at the Belvedere?”

  Connie adopts an expression of world weariness and says, “Too long. I’ll stop here for the season, then I’ll be moving on again. It’s like something out of the Cartoon Capers in that kitchen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone is terrified of the chef. You should see the waiters jump when he shouts. He puts the fear of God into the kitchen porters when he doesn’t think they’re moving fast enough. You should hear him curse! They say he’s handy with his fists, but I’ve never seen it. I’ve never had any trouble with him.”

  Jack listens while Connie gives him a full account of life behind the scenes at the Belvedere. She is an entertaining talker with a sharp sense of humor. Jack starts to relax. It’s not as if he’s doing anything wrong. He picks up their empty glasses and buys another round. The evening passes quickly until they call last orders. “This’ll have to be your last,” Jack says. “You should be getting back, Connie. You’ve got work in the morning.”

  It has turned rowdy outside when they leave. Jack puts out a guiding hand, barely touching the small of her back, and directs her across the road. They stop when Connie decides to demonstrate that she can still walk a straight line. The fat metal tramlines shine silver in the moonlight as she places one foot in front of the other with painstaking precision. An oncoming tram disrupts the demonstration and the couple retreat to the promenade where knots of stragglers make their beery way back to their hotels and tipsy couples share fish and chips in the darkness of the shelters. The wind has an edge to it. Jack removes his jacket and places it over Connie’s bare shoulders. She catches hold of his hand and hangs on to it as they walk. It is only reasonable that he should see her safely back to the hotel. But Connie is in no hurry to return. She slows her walk until she comes to a full stop, pulls Jack’s jacket closer and stares at the strings of fairy lights that trace the curve of the promenade down to Central Pier. In the far distance they can see the flashing white lights of the Big Wheel that turn and turn in the pitch-black sky, and below them they can hear the slow slap of the tide against the sea wall.

  Connie is not allowed to use the hotel’s main entrance. Staff quarters are round the back and cloaked in darkness ever since the floodlight gave up. Connie takes Jack’s hand and navigates her way around the collection of dustbins and broken chairs that litter the backyard. It will, Jack reasons, only take a minute to see her safely to her room. Once there, Jack watches as she trawls through her handbag. She hands him the key and he opens the door on to a modest room lit by a forty-watt bulb. The room is bare of furniture save for a wardrobe and a single chest of drawers. Over the washbasin there’s a cracked mirror screwed to the wall. Connie moves over the threshold and, turning, puts both arms round Jack’s neck. Sensing his reluctance, she moves closer, running her hand under his jacket and over the small of his back.

  Despite the surprise Jack is flattered, amused even. He takes her by the shoulders, intending to push her gently away. But the luminescent softness of her arms and the scent that rises from her skin fills his senses. He breathes an audible sigh when she kisses him. He bends and kisses her back with a fierce intensity that leaves them both breathless. He bends still further, strokes away the ringlets of hair that cover her right shoulder, buries his face in the warm curve of her neck. She responds immediately,
her body tense, tight with excitement. Arching backwards, she draws him into the room, smiles as she locks the door.

  A radio is playing next door, an old Dean Martin song that Jack half recognizes from before the war. The effortless sway of the melody curls around the room, lazy with the sound of saxophones and rich with an underpinning of muted drumming. The curtains are open to the distant neon light of a backstreet peep show (“Makes Old Men Young!”). Jack is beyond thought. In the presence of this woman he is lost to himself. It is so easy to slip the dress from her shoulders. The zip slides away down to the curve of her back with a sound like a skate over thin ice. The music has changed. Bobby Darin is singing “Beyond the Sea” and Jack is kissing her now as if his life depended upon it; as if he is twenty again and back in Crete; as if it is Eleni lying in his arms in the green shelter of grass and, above their heads, a tracery of boughs hang heavy with the sharp perfume of orange blossom.

  Jack explores the body beneath him. She is all curves, moist to the touch of his fingers, open to the movement of his hand. When she rolls on top of him he is conscious of the glorious weight of her breasts against his skin, the hard press of her nipples. The sheets rumple beneath them as their hands move, pulling aside satin and cotton, careless of the temporary restraint of buttons. The pillow lies discarded on the floor along with remnants of clothing and shoes. The narrow room is filled to the brim, bursting with pleasure. Jack’s hands are broad and warm across her stomach. His fingers measure the length of her inner thigh, elicit a shudder of pleasure that registers in her backbone so sharply that she pulls away. But in the next moment she presses herself against him again, greedy for the rough tangle of hairs that cover his chest and belly, the urgent rasp of his chin against her cheek, the rub of his fingers, the salt taste of his skin. He pushes her hand down the length of his belly, urging her on until she takes him within the circle of her hand and, rolling over, guides him inside her. For a moment he appears paralyzed with the rush of sensation, afraid that he will come too soon. And then he is moving. Connie arching towards him when he enters her, her mouth wide with the shock of pleasure. When he moves against her she tilts, her legs wrapped smoothly round his hips. He rises above her, his hands covering her breasts. Connie draws him in closer and closer still until, in the final union, they occupy a single space, a single exultant moment. The sound rises from the bed and echoes joyfully around the walls before dissolving into the surrounding darkness. “Eleni,” he whispers into the perfumed mass of her hair.