The Palace of Strange Girls Page 7

  “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.

  6

  Collection Box

  If you look carefully you’ll often see collection boxes on the promenade. Some of them are quite unusual—perhaps it’s an old
mine from the war, or a big model lifeboat, or even a disarmed depth charge and thrower! Where is your favorite charity box? Score a generous 15 points.

  The Singleton family are returning to their hotel room after lunch when Helen pulls her dad to one side. She waits until her mother and Beth disappear round the corner before saying, “Can I go out this afternoon?”

  “Where do you want to go?” Jack asks.

  “Just for a coffee.”

  “Have you told your mother?”

  “It’s only a coffee, Dad. I’ll be back before teatime.”

  Jack reaches into his pocket for a coin. “Here you are.”

  Helen takes the coin and is gone in a flash. Jack shakes his head and continues to make his way up the stairs.

  The Belvedere prides itself on being a superior hotel, and so it appears from a casual glance, from its mock-Georgian portico to its oak-paneled main staircase. No expense has been spared. The plush crimson and gold pile carpet that graces the exclusive Residents’ Lounge extends throughout the immaculate ground floor. Sadly this reputation for luxury and cleanliness falters and finally fails when Helen passes through the STAFF ONLY door. Once her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she makes out a flight of steps that leads to a warren of dimly lit doglegged corridors. The air reeks of overcooked vegetables and rising damp. She peers at each well-worn and heavily scratched door as she moves through the darkness. Connie, when Helen finds her, is in room three. She is leaning over the washbasin in the corner and squinting into a tiny mirror as she applies another layer of Mediterranean-blue eyeshadow.

  “Hiya!” Connie shouts in answer to Helen’s polite knock. “Come in. Won’t be a sec.”

  Helen steps over the threshold and looks around. Connie appears caught in the eye of a storm of personal possessions. Along with the piles of indiscriminate refuse there are copies of Boyfriend magazine (a weekly that Helen would kill to read) and various piles of clothes. Helen is faced with a chaotic mêlée of items from hairclips to powder puffs and discarded food and drink. Various articles of clothing are scattered across the cracked brown lino. A graying bra with circular stitching round the cone-shaped cups is hanging off the back of a chair piled high with discarded skirts and tops. The ledge above the washbasin is crammed with cosmetics, perfume and an overturned can of talc, and the towel rail below is home to several odd stockings, a pair of knickers and a single hand towel. Under the sink Helen spots a curled pink corset with suspenders attached.

  “You’ve got one of those new corsets. It’s a roll-on, like in the adverts. Is it comfy?”

  “Yeah. It’s great. A lot better than the old-fashioned girdles. Those things dig in all over the place. It’s a Playtex elastic. Dead easy. Just roll it on and roll it off.”

  “I wish I had one. Mum won’t get me one; she says I’ve no figure to keep in so I just have a cotton suspender belt. The waist has gone and it’s always slipping down. You’re so lucky, you’ve got so much stuff. I mean I can’t believe you have so many clothes!”

  “Oh, well, you’re welcome to borrow anything. If you fancy any of my skirts or anything. Hey! I’ll bet we’re the same shoe size. Why don’t you try on my new stilettos?” Connie flaps her free hand in the direction of the bed. “They’re under there, I think.”

  Helen struggles to ignore the sound of her mother’s voice in her ear: “Never try on shoes that someone else has had on. You’ll end up with verrucas… or worse, some kind of transmitted disease.” But the prospect of seeing herself in a pair of stilettos is too exciting to refuse. Helen bends and pulls out a Freeman Hardy & Willis box from under the bed. It is disappointingly empty save for a couple of sanitary towels, an emery board and tenpence ha’penny in copper. Helen resumes the search. At last she spots one shoe in the bottom of the gaping wardrobe and the other under the washbasin. Helen slips on the shoes and struggles to her feet. The heels are vertiginous—so much so that she is afraid to walk and as a result is reduced to standing still and swaying slightly.

  “They look great,” Connie assures her. “I’m wearing them myself this afternoon otherwise you could borrow them.”

  “It’s OK,” Helen replies. “I don’t think I’d be able to walk in them anyway.”

  “You have to practice, but you get the knack after a bit.”

  Helen opens her handbag and pulls out a piece of newspaper. “Here, look what I found in the paper.” Helen passes Connie a clipping that reads:

  PLANS ASSISTANT

  The Land Registry has a vacancy for a Junior Plans

  Assistant. Applicants must be aged between 16 and 18

  and have a good general education (minimum 3 GCEs).

  Salary £282 per year rising to £789.

  “What do you think?” Helen asks.

  “Not a lot, that’s only about a fiver a week.”

  “Five pounds eight shillings and fivepence a week,” Helen corrects.

  “Bloody hell, Helen. I get a fiver a week when you include tips, and I get free meals and a room on top.”

  “Do you? That’s a fortune! But this job is permanent and the salary goes up the older you get.”

  Connie yawns theatrically and says, “Boring! Boring! Anyway, I’m ready now. Let’s go and check out the talent at Rico’s.”

  Connie and Helen have been in the café the best part of an hour during which time they have purchased and drunk two cappuccinos each while admiring the exotic surroundings. Rico’s is stocked with a series of Formica-covered pedestal tables with chrome ladder-back chairs with matching seats. There’s a line of high stools next to the pine bar where a complex arrangement of chrome urns, connected with thin metal pipes, spout high-pressure steam to heat up and froth stainless-steel jugs of milk. Both girls watch amazed as Rico, a young man with skin the color of the coffee he serves, juggles with black-handled steel filters of freshly ground beans. The sight of so much chrome and steam, and the clink of steel against clear glass cups and saucers, are impressive. For Helen, who has only ever drunk tea, the rich, exotic aroma of coffee is exciting. Looking around, she sees that a huge jukebox fills one corner of the café. When not in use, a soundtrack of lively foreign-sounding music accompanies Rico in his chrome and steam empire.

  Helen and Connie are sitting together by the jukebox, taking in the sights and sounds, and keeping a covert eye on the rest of the customers. They both look up when a group of four men in their late teens jostle each other through the double doors and head towards the counter. Adrian spots Helen immediately. She looks beautiful. So beautiful that he freezes for a moment, transfixed by the sight of her glossy hair and clear skin. He takes his time, hitches the collection box round his neck and begins at the opposite end of the café from where she is sitting. This CND lark is the best chatup opportunity he has ever had. It’s foolproof. Every Tuesday, while his fellow students are engaged in sporting activities, Adrian crams himself into the Union bus and heads to any one of a string of local towns to spend the day shaking his collection box at a variety of teenage girls and young women. Of course, there’s the odd bloke who turns nasty when he says he’s collecting for nuclear disarmament—mostly along the lines of “The bloody Nazis would be in charge now if we’d chucked away all our bombs. What do you think stopped the bastards? Our superior weapons, that’s what. If it’s a toss-up between dropping bombs or offering them a cup of tea and the chance to talk, I know which I’d choose. I didn’t fight in the last war to let weak-kneed idiots like you piss around with this country’s security. Why aren’t you doing your National Service?”

  Adrian has learned that it’s pointless protesting that he’s already completed his National Service. He has spent two long years “working hard for the empire,” which in most cases boiled down to polishing his kit and hoping the ceasefire in Korea held. It’s a rarity to come across any other male peace campaigners—the whole country is still reveling in the euphoria of winning a second world war. You’d expect the Labour Party to support disarmament, but Gaitskell can’t seem to ma
ke up his mind. He doesn’t want to be seen to be playing into Khrushchev’s hands. The Labour Party avoid any open discussion of disarmament like the plague. As a result the level of general ignorance is shocking—half of the people Adrian speaks to don’t understand the first thing about the H bomb, but Adrian finds that girls, for the most part, are at least prepared to listen. In fact, they seem to hang on his every word. It’s a satisfying way to spend an afternoon—collecting both money and women. Another few minutes and he’ll have worked his way round to Helen’s table. Bingo!

  Helen has been watching the group of students from under the cover of her fringe ever since they walked in. She has been sitting quietly hoping that the good-looking one will come to her table. She’s no idea what he’s collecting for but she’s determined to contribute.

  “Look at that bunch of students,” Connie says, stirring another spoonful of demerara sugar into her cappuccino.

  “How do you know they’re students?”

  “You can spot them a mile off. Duffel coats, jeans, beards and striped scarves. Layabouts, the lot of them.”

  “I think the one with the dark hair and the long scarf looks nice.”

  Connie casts a professional eye over Adrian and tilts her head from side to side. “He’s OK, I suppose, but you can’t see a lot under all that hair.”