The Palace of Strange Girls Page 9

  To this end Ruth has learned to be thrifty. Every Friday teatime Jack comes in with his wage packet and opens it at the sideboard, while Ruth lays the table. She doesn’t know precisely what Jack earns. It varies from week to week with overtime and now, after seventeen years of marriage, she has given up asking. He pulls out his wage slip first and glares at the tax and deductions, before turning his attention to money. He tips the wage packet upside down and catches the loose change, flicking the coins back and forth in his palm before depositing them in his trouser pocket. He then turns his attention to the bundle of notes. Green pounds, blue fivers and the odd red ten bob note, his lips moving with the calculation. He extracts a few notes for his wallet and hands the rest to Ruth.

  She, meanwhile, has a red Sovereign notebook where she keeps track of her housekeeping money. She scrimps and saves at every opportunity, making sandwich lunches, sewing all her daughters’ dresses, knitting sweaters for Jack, buying scrag end for broths and cutting back on coal. She resists the lure of Camay (“You’ll be a little lovelier each day, with wonderful pink Camay!”). She buys rough yellow blocks of carbolic soap instead, saving the residual slimy remnants to cram into a plastic swish basket for suds when she washes up. This thrifty approach informs everything she does. The Kleeneaze man would kill to get his selection of dusters and cloths past the Singletons’ doorstep, but Ruth sticks resolutely to her own system of using up old clothes as cleaning rags. White rags are used initially for pressing collars, until they wear into holes, at which point they are used to clean windows until, in the end, they are boil-washed and used to stanch the nosebleeds that Ruth has suffered from since she was a child. Colored rags serve as dusters and hand mops. Woolen sweaters are unraveled and reknitted. Anything left over is given to the rag-and-bone man in exchange for a donkey stone to whiten the front step. It is by thrift that Ruth has cut her weekly shopping bill to less than thirty shillings, allowing her quietly to put away a pound a week into her account at the post office. Ruth is determined to move to a bigger house where there will be space for all the gadgets, furniture and labor-saving electrical equipment she desires. Until that day arrives she must content herself with window shopping. And what better occupation could there be on a sunny afternoon in July?

  Sheltered for the most part from the sea breeze, the shopping center is a suntrap this afternoon. Ruth loosens the scarf round her neck and unbuttons her coat. When she catches sight of a sale banner in the front window of Kennet Quality Drapers her pace quickens, despite the heat. There’s a tea chest outside the shop that’s filled with neatly folded remnants. Ruth is sorting through the various fabrics with an eye to making a summer dress when the shop owner, a slim, elderly man, approaches her. “Can I help you, madam?”

  “No, thank you, I’m just looking.” This well-worn sentence is delivered in a firm tone that usually scares off pushy shopkeepers.

  But this is Blackpool and Mr. Kennet is not intimidated. He smiles thinly and says, “Ah, I see you’ve found the blue seersucker. A quality Sea Island cotton, that. Long staple. Very hard-wearing.”

  “Yes,” Ruth agrees.

  “I have over a hundred different fabrics if you’d care to look inside.”

  Ruth hesitates. She knows she is being soft-soaped, but she could do with making herself another dress. After some token hesitation she picks up her shopping bag and enters the shop. The shelves behind the long wooden counter are a riot of different colors and textures, from bolts of crimson velvet to magenta satin and black net. There isn’t a single price tag to be seen, making Ruth immediately wary.

  “I take it you’re looking for dress material?”

  “Yes, but I’m only interested in your sale fabric.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kennet says with a wide smile, “I think you’ll find even our full-price materials are cheaper than elsewhere. Here on holiday, are you?” Ruth nods reluctantly. “Well, I’m sure I can send you home with a bargain. What sort of fabric are you looking for?”

  “Cotton.”

  “Let me show you what we have.” Within the space of a minute the air is lavish with bright cotton fluttering from various bolts. The material is gathered and cast across the counter with casual artistry. Ruth is left breathless by the sight of so many colors splashed across the polished wood. She lines the tips of her fingers against the edge of the counter, her eyes filled with excitement.

  “I have plain cotton, of course, but I’m sure you’d prefer this.” Mr. Kennet unrolls a bolt of white cotton decorated with sprigs of primrose. Ruth knows at a glance that the style would be more suited to a woman half her age. She shakes her head. The next fabric is a lavender design and again Ruth shakes her head. There is too much wastage with a repeated pattern and it’s a job getting all the seams to match. More bolts of cotton are taken down from the shelves. Ruth is not proving to be an easy customer. She examines each fabric closely, dismissing any printed cottons, aware that they will fade.

  She is losing interest when Mr. Kennet unrolls a bolt of fabric covered in giant pink roses and verdant foliage. “This one is called ‘Romance.’ It’s new in,” he says. “Very sophisticated, isn’t it? See,” he says, gathering the cloth into a ripple of soft folds. “Look at the detail on the flowers. It’s top quality.” Mr. Kennet heaves an audible sigh of pleasure. “Just look at the color. The design is woven in. Won’t fade.”

  Ruth visualizes how the material would look made up into a simple round-necked dress with a gathered skirt. It would look wonderful. Mr. Kennet sees her expression. He swiftly gathers up the other discarded cottons and replaces them on the shelves, leaving only a lavish spread of the rose fabric across the counter.

  Ruth is silent, drinking in the crimson and pink petals. At last she is roused to speak. “It’s British, is it?”

  Mr. Kennet hesitates. “Let me see,” he replies, pretending to consult a book under the counter. He waits a moment before saying, “Well, blow me! I could have sworn it was Lancashire cotton.”

  “It’s not foreign, is it?”

  “It would seem so,” replies Mr. Kennet, closing the petty cash book. “But, of course, the price reflects that. It’s substantially cheaper, only nineteen and six a yard.”

  “I always buy British.”

  “I quite understand,” Mr. Kennet replies gravely. “But it’s difficult getting a modern design like this. It’s rare to find anything with so much color and style.”

  “Have you nothing by Standfast?”

  “I’m afraid not. I sell very little Standfast fabric nowadays. It’s too expensive. My customers want something new at a competitive price. British designs aren’t a patch on these German weaves.”

  “German? No, thank you, I’ve changed my mind.”

  Ruth turns and starts to leave the shop when Mr. Kennet says, “If you were to take a few yards, say a dress length, I could do it cheap for you.”

  Ruth pauses. The material is extravagant. It knocks the other fabrics into a cocked hat. Jack would be furious if he knew she’d even been looking at imported cloth, let alone considered buying some. Every yard of foreign cloth that’s sold is one more nail in the coffin of Lancashire’s cotton industry. And this material is even worse. It’s made in Germany. “I’m sorry,” she says, picking up her shopping bag. She opens the door a fraction and a blast of salty air rushes into the shop, lifting the edge of the fatal fabric that is strewn across the counter.

  “Just a moment.” The shopkeeper measures out a few lengths of the rose material against the yard-long brass rule screwed into the edge of the counter. Ruth watches as the fabric tumbles from the bolt. Within moments the counter is invisible under a profusion of roses complete with buds and crisp leaves. Mr. Kennet cuts the cloth with a single stroke of the scissors. “Here you are. There’s a good dress length there. Retails at a fiver and you’d pay a good bit more in some places. You can have it for three guineas.”

  Ruth looks him straight in the eye. “It’s a lot to pay for foreign cotton.”

/>   “Three quid, then. Top-quality cotton. And I’m cutting my own throat at that.”

  It is midafternoon when Ruth finally emerges from the draper’s. She is carrying a square parcel neatly tied with string. She looks at her watch. There’s time for a quick look on Queen Street before she must return.

  Queen Street is home to the most exclusive of the town’s shops. Jewelers, milliners, furriers and high-class chemists are housed along a graceful colonnade of shops. Ruth pauses at Roberto’s to admire the display of Italian couture day and evening dresses. At the front of the window there’s a range of handbags, diamante for evening and leather for day. Her attention is caught by a caramel-colored calfskin shoulder bag and matching hand-stitched gloves. Roberto’s is not the sort of shop that displays price tags. The shop’s clients are not the type who count the cost. Ruth knows from experience that shoppers like herself who reckon in shillings and pence rather than guineas aren’t the sort of clientele the shop wishes to attract. But the bag is beautiful. She is still gazing at the soft leather when a shop assistant opens the door for a customer about to leave. As Ruth swiftly steps aside she recognizes a face. “Cora! Heavens, you made me jump. What are you doing here?” Ruth asks.

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  Even in her high heels Cora Lloyd is only just five foot tall. She is dressed in a plain cream shift with a matching long-sleeved bolero in a fancy brocade. Her legs shimmer under seven-denier fine silk stockings and her chestnut-brown hair gleams in the sunshine. Cora is immaculate. Nevertheless there is an air of fragility about her that has become apparent in recent months. A tremulous quality to her gestures, a brittle thinness in her laughter.

  “Why aren’t you in Spain? What happened to the holiday on the Costa Brava?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t go. Ronnie had a string of last-minute meetings and we couldn’t have got down to London in time for the flight.”

  “So you came to Blackpool?” Ruth is incredulous.

  “Well, yes. Don’t look shocked, Ruth. It’s not the end of the world and it’s a lot less traveling for a start.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Links over in St. Anne’s. It’s convenient for the golf course. Ronnie was determined to fit in a few rounds while we were away.”

  “Very nice for Ronald, I’m sure. Anyway, how are you? I barely recognized you with those big sunglasses on.”

  “Oh, fine. I’m fine really.”

  Ruth hears the slight tremble in her friend’s voice and puts it down to disappointment. Ruth would be fed up if she were promised the Costa Brava and ended up in bloomin’ Blackpool. “Look, let’s go for a cup of tea. I haven’t seen you for a proper chat for ages.”

  “Ruth! I only saw you last week at the party.”

  Cora’s Tupperware party the previous week had been a great success. Cora had served sherry to a select group of women while she outlined the advantages of the airtight plastic boxes and introduced the new additions to the range. Ruth was particularly impressed with the circular top that keeps an opened bottle of milk fresh (even without a fridge!). She had bought one on the spot and several other women had followed suit. Cora had gone on to demonstrate that only with Tupperware can you make food the day before and store it hygienically until it is needed. There was a full display of Tupperware on the walnut dining table. Transparent cornflake boxes that show how much cereal is left, containers to prevent highly flavored foods like chopped onions from tainting other milder foods, sandwich boxes for packed lunches, tightly capped tumblers for carrying fluids and rectangular fridge jugs that save space and eliminate spills. The evening had been a triumph.

  “We barely got a moment to ourselves at the party. For goodness’ sake, Cora. You’ve time for a cup of tea, haven’t you?” Ruth sees the hesitation in her friend’s face. “Unless you’re expected elsewhere,” she adds.

  “I shouldn’t really. Ronnie always likes me to be there waiting when he comes in and I’ve already been out an hour longer than I intended.”

  “Oh, blow Ronnie. You’re on holiday! Come on—I’ll pay. We’ll go to the Emporium. The scones are on me.”

  “The Emporium? That sounds very posh.”

  “It’s not. It’s still the Co-op. They gave it a fancy name when they opened the new store.”

  The women link arms and head down the street. At a casual glance they could be mother and daughter. Cora is thirty-seven—a full seven years younger than Ruth. Her long chestnut-brown hair is coaxed back into a neat French pleat. Ruth, shrouded in an overlarge raincoat and shod in sensible shoes, looks much older. The two women have been friends for a long time. Cora was the first person Ruth told when she got engaged to Jack. The engagement caused a sensation at church. Half the girls thought it was a hoax. Jack Singleton marrying his old Sunday School teacher. Word had got round that it was one of Jack’s jokes and the engagement would be called off next time he came home on leave.

  But Cora didn’t sneer or poke fun. “Why, Ruth,” she’d said. “You’re a dark horse and no mistake.”

  “He’s six years younger than me,” Ruth had confessed with some pride.

  “Fancy you landing Blackburn’s very own heartbreaker. Why, I can hardly believe it! I’m so happy for you, Ruth.”

  Jack had sent Ruth the money to get a ring. A modest sapphire, or maybe an amethyst. Ruth, aware of the gossip, decided that, whatever the cost, she would buy the best ring in the shop. In the finish she’d added £30 of her own money and bought the triple diamond.

  “Now let them laugh,” Cora had said when she saw the ring.

  The two women had been firm friends ever since.

  The Co-op restaurant is up several flights of marble steps, on the top floor of the store, but the climb is worth it. There are views right across the promenade and out to sea. The restaurant itself is frugally lit by circular white glass globes suspended from the high ceiling. The waitresses scurry round the tables in semidarkness.

  “Which hotel are you staying at? I tried and tried to remember it this morning but I couldn’t.”

  “The Belvedere. We go there every year. Jack wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else. He’ll book and put the deposit down on next year’s holiday before we leave on Saturday.”

  Cora smiles and looks sympathetic. She knows that Ruth would give her right arm to go elsewhere. Ruth had suggested last year that it might be nice to try Llandudno for a change but Jack had shaken his head. He has holidayed in Blackpool since he was a child. The tea and a cake stand of scones arrive, and Ruth lifts the lid of the silver teapot and gives it a good stir before pouring.

  It’s only when Cora stretches out her hand to take the cup of tea she is offered that Ruth thinks she sees a shadow across her friend’s wrist. She opens her mouth to ask but she’s interrupted by Cora’s laughter as she pokes into one of Ruth’s shopping bags. “Now, let me guess. No, Ruth, don’t tell me what’s in the bag. M-m-m. Now what could you have been buying at Timothy White’s? It’s not another gadget, is it?”

  “A kitchen timer—it’ll come in useful.”

  “Along with the rest.”

  “What do you mean, I only have a few.”

  “A few? Your scullery drawers are crammed with them—icing nozzles, whisks, biscuit cutters, two different sorts of peelers, apple corers, plastic spoons, bottle toppers and tongs, to say nothing of the measuring spoons, tenderizing hammer, measuring cone… The last time I looked in your pantry you were busy screwing cup hooks on the underside of the shelf to accommodate all your graters, slicers and cutters. You’re like a woman possessed, Ruth.”

  “I’ll have you know, Cora Lloyd, I use every single one of them.”

  “Even the garlic press?”

  “Perhaps not as much as the others.”

  “Never.”

  “Cheeky beggar. You’ll see. One day I’ll have a modern kitchen to put all these gadgets in.”

  “Still yearning for one of those new semis? I don’t know why. Your
terrace is lovely and cozy, it’s like a little palace.”

  “Palaces are normally a bit bigger than two-up two-down. Anyway, I’ve got the deposit for a semi. It’s just a case of persuading Jack that we can afford the mortgage. We really need a bigger house—a two-bedroomed terrace is too small. Oh, I know Mrs. Kerkley next door has brought up four boys—but she’s a right sloppy hag. I’ve seen her sweeping down her backyard in her carpet slippers.”

  “Well, at least she’s doing some housework.”

  “Give over. She’s that mucky she’s a breeder for Louis Pasteur. You can laugh, Cora. You don’t have to live next door. When her oldest lad got Emma Bradshaw pregnant she just shrugged her shoulders and the girl moved in as well. If it had been my lad I’d have killed him. He wouldn’t know what had hit him.” Ruth takes a bite of her scone and pulls a face. “I wouldn’t bother with the scones, Cora. They’re rock hard—must have got the recipe from Jack’s mother.”

  “And what’s this?” Cora asks, seizing the brown-paper parcel.