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‘A slight chest irregularity. Probably minor, nothing to be anxious about. I have a colleague who might have a look at her. Mr Tomlinson at the hospital.’
‘He’s a heart man, isn’t he? Is it her heart? What’s wrong with it?’
‘It might be a circulation problem. You yourself have noticed she’s breathless sometimes. I thought I heard a slight whisper when I listened to her chest, but I could be mistaken. We doctors aren’t infallible.’
‘What do you mean, a whisper?’
‘Let’s wait until Mr Tomlinson has seen her, shall we? Then we’ll be sure what we’re talking about.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘I’ll have a word with him first thing tomorrow. He’s a good man. Can you take this little girl up tomorrow around two o’clock? Save all the bother of waiting for an appointment. Now I must get on, there are patients waiting to be seen.’
Ruth quits the surgery with some reluctance. She senses that there is something seriously wrong, but can get no further with old Richmond. She is too clever to be misled by his diagnostic hesitation, or the sudden availability of a hospital appointment. There is something wrong with her daughter and only Ruth’s iron restraint in the company of strangers keeps her from crying in the queue for the bus home.
4 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
SHORE CRAB
This crab often hides under the sand with just his eyes and feelers showing and so he may be difficult to spot. He can also appear unexpectedly from under a stone but beware! The green and black shore crab has two very sharp pincer claws; once he latches on to something he won’t let go! Score 20 for an unexpected appearance.
‘Bloomin’ ’eck, Ruth, how much longer?’ Jack has been hauling three deckchairs around the sands for all of twenty minutes while his wife searches for a suitable location. The perfect spot has to be at the furthest possible point from the pier (roughnecks), sewage outlets (polio) and any patch of sand that has even a trace of tar. It’s not an easy task. Jack’s patience, along with the muscles in his right arm, is stretched to the limit. It is only when Ruth stops, turns and begins to retrace her steps along the beach that Jack drops the three deckchairs, windbreak and bags in the sand and says, ‘That’s it! This’ll do, Ruth.’
Ruth looks unconvinced. She stops and assures herself that they are still some distance from the sea. This is important if they are to get their money’s worth out of the deckchairs. But it is only when she catches sight of the hordes of holidaymakers flooding down on to the beach behind her that she nods in agreement and Jack sighs with relief.
Jack puts up the deckchairs and windbreak, while Ruth unpacks the bags. Thus engaged, it is too late by the time they notice Mr and Mrs Sykes to take avoidance measures. Harry and Irene Sykes are, to quote their favourite expression, ‘bang up to date’ as only childless couples in their thirties can ever hope to be. Harry, sporting a pair of black winkle-picker shoes and green drainpipe trousers, sidles up. He has an extravagant quiff that teeters in the wind, and sideburns a good couple of inches longer than is decent for a man his age. Harry is foreman at Alexandria, a mill owned by Foster Brothers, the same company that employs Jack. He and Harry Sykes have known each other since Jack joined the firm but they have rarely, if ever, seen eye to eye. Despite this, Harry Sykes puts down his deckchairs next to Jack and says, ‘Fancy seeing you here, Jack. Mind if we join you?’
‘Of course not, Harry,’ Jack replies, suppressing the urge to bolt. Ruth meanwhile gives the interlopers the briefest of nods, then turns her back and begins to empty her grey tartan shopping bag of towels, sun cream, knitting and this week’s copy of Woman’s Own.
Irene Sykes perches prettily on the edge of the deckchair that Harry has assembled for her with a single flick of his wrist. She puts the white stilettos she has been carrying since she reached the sands under her chair, opens her handbag and pulls out a pink enamelled compact decorated with the silhouette of a black poodle. She checks her lipstick in the mirror first, using a brightly varnished nail to wipe away the inevitable smudges of matching pink lipstick from the corners of her mouth. Snapping the compact smartly shut, she flashes Jack a brilliant smile. In present company Irene may have both youth and beauty on her side, but still she regards Ruth with a careful eye. ‘Hello, Mrs Singleton,’ she ventures. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
‘And how’s little Beth. Getting better now, is she?’ Irene gives the child a look of heartfelt concern. Beth is wearing a blue mohair coat that ends just above her grey ankle socks and her head is wrapped in a yellow scarf.
‘Elizabeth is very well, thank you,’ Ruth replies in a tone designed to stifle any further questions.
‘Poor little mite.’ Mrs Sykes bends down and tickles Beth under her chin. ‘I knew you when you were a tiny baby.’
Beth gives Mrs Sykes her whole attention.
‘Your mum used to bring you to Baby Clinic every Tuesday. You were so good, you never cried. I had to weigh you every week to make sure that you were putting on enough weight and then write everything down in a special file. She was very late walking, wasn’t she, Mrs Singleton?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Ruth replies.
‘Oh, but she was. I recall the doctor and I were very worried about her at one point because she was so far behind the other babies.’ Ruth glares at Irene. ‘But of course you were ill. That’s why you were slow.’
Beth looks disappointed and returns to carving pictures of dogs in the sand.
Six years on and the memory of Irene Sykes writing ‘slow walker’ in the Baby Clinic file can still raise Ruth to fury. Irene Sykes may be a nurse, but she’s no children of her own so what on earth would she know about anything?
‘But you had the sweetest nature, Beth. Like a little angel.’
A lump rises in Irene’s throat. ‘How is she now, Mrs Singleton? I heard at work that she’d had the operation.’
‘She’s very well, thank you.’
‘The physiotherapist told me that you’d cancelled any further visits. I know she was quite concerned.’
‘She doesn’t need any more physiotherapy. I’m sure Miss Franks has other patients who need her attentions more than Elizabeth.’
Irene is doubtful, but the look on Ruth’s face persuades her to let the subject drop. In the ensuing silence Ruth picks up her knitting. ‘And how’s Helen?’ Irene asks, turning to the teenager.
‘Very well, thank you, Mrs Sykes.’
It is obvious that further attempts at conversation are a waste of time, so Irene leans back in her deckchair and lazily crosses one immaculately groomed leg over the other, showing off her evenly tanned legs, her white net petticoat and next week’s washing in the process. She raises both arms, arching her slender back against the striped canvas. Her breasts rise against her scoop-necked bodice. Satisfied she has attracted the glance of every man in the vicinity, Irene closes her eyes against the glare of the sun and, smiling, relaxes.
Helen is overjoyed with her copy of the New Musical Express. There’s a big poster of Bobby Darin in this week and a two-page spread. It’s the only reason Helen bought the magazine. She flicks past the other articles (‘Things Elvis Keeps Dark’, ‘Marty Wilde and Bert Weedon – So Much in Common’ and ‘Jerry Keller’s “Here Comes Summer” Hits the Right Note’) and turns to the poster. According to the article Bobby has ‘a flashing personality, golden-brown skin, expressive eyebrows and dazzling white teeth’. The photo is only in black and white, but Helen can tell the description is all true. Bobby is wearing a tight shiny suit and he’s dancing. His left arm is raised while the fingers of his right hand curl round the blunt bulk of the microphone. He must be dancing because Helen can see his legs are bent and one knee is twisted out to reveal his shiny winkle-picker shoes. It’s enough to make Helen feel dizzy. She’s looked in her Collins School Atlas more than once to see where Bobby lives. She knows it’s a long way to America, but when she puts her thumb on Lancashire and her forefinger on New York it isn’t far at all. In her dreams it’s barely the distance of a breath and she’s there in Hollywood, slow-dancing with Bobby. Even now, in broad daylight, she’s irresistibly drawn to his photograph – the expression on his face when he looks directly into her eyes is enough to make her feel light-headed. Eventually she tears her eyes away from the poster and moves on to the columns of small print. Bobby, it says, was brought up in a rough neighbourhood where there were drunken fights and stabbings. Helen’s mouth falls open as she reads that Bobby grew up surrounded by cheats, thieves, drunks, armed Mafia gangs and prostitution (whatever that is) on every corner. The family was very poor, but Bobby says, ‘You could walk in our house and not see any furniture or anything, but love would hit you square in the mouth.’
Helen is deeply moved. It is terrible to think that her idol was brought up in a slum. Helen sometimes comes home from school with a bit of ink on her cuff and her mother always shouts, ‘Take that blouse off this minute. Anybody would think you’d been brought up in a slum.’
Helen’s grandma Catlow lives on Bird Street and her mother says the house is no better than a slum. This is why Helen only ever sees her grandma once a year at Christmas when Mum brings her up on the bus from Bird Street to visit. Still, it’s nice that Bobby has such a close, loving family. The only thing that hits Helen square in the mouth when she walks in after school is the smell of polish and the sound of her mother scrubbing.
Bobby doesn’t think school is up to much. He says, ‘You don’t know people or life through books. You learn by living and doing. You gotta go out in the world.’
Helen couldn’t agree more. Bobby says that when he told his mother he wasn’t going back to school she was disappointed, but she didn’t try to stop him. He told her, ‘Mom, it’s time I got out to see what makes it tick.’ Helen wishes she could leave school and get a job like Connie, but she doubts that her mother will let her. She looks again at the picture of Bobby. She caught sight of him yesterday on the television at the hotel. He was singing his hit song ‘Splish Splash’ followed by his new record, ‘Dream Lover’. Bobby Darin has been Helen’s dream lover ever since the moment she saw his photo on the front of Boyfriend magazine. He’s half Italian and you can tell. He’s got dark wavy hair and a brilliant smile. He’s a great dancer too. Not like the boys at school.
The memory of her last school soirée is still fresh in Helen’s mind. Not that it was any different from usual – the girls sitting on forms at one side of the gym and all the boys standing around at the other side. There was the usual mad rush when the music started, the thunder of pumps across the wooden floor as the boys raced across to grab the best girls. Helen had hoped that David Cooper, with his shock of strawberry-blond hair and black winkle-picker boots, might ask her to dance, but Hanson had got to her first. It happens every year – Hanson runs for East Lancs Schoolboys. Helen was refusing to dance even as Hanson was dragging her into the centre of the gym. As a result Helen spent the first part of the evening limping around the floor in the clutches of Hanson and the latter part watching in despair as her best friend Susan monopolised David Cooper. It would have been so different if Bobby had been there.
‘I hear the bastards are looking for a new manager at your place.’
Jack is familiar with Harry’s habit of referring to the mill owners as bastards and, under normal circumstances, barely bats an eyelid. But Ruth is easily offended and has a bee in her bonnet about bad language, especially in front of the girls. Jack looks pointedly at his daughters before giving Harry a warning glance and saying, ‘Aye. Tom Brierley finished last Friday.’
‘Irreplaceable, that one,’ Harry mutters, ‘they’ll not find another crawler that fast.’
Jack sighs and shakes his head. It was Brierley who refused to have Harry back as foreman after the war, so the company shifted Sykes to Alexandria Mill. Harry took it badly. Alexandria still has the old looms and as a result weaves tea towels rather than the fancy work that’s done in the weaving shed where Jack works. Even promotion to head foreman at Alexandria Mill failed to sweeten the pill where Harry was concerned – he was, as he was always at pains to point out, still being paid less than what he would have got if he’d stayed put. Worse, Jack replaced him as foreman at Prospect. All this has resulted in the relationship between Jack and Harry Sykes being strained, to say the least. If there’s a smile on Harry’s face at the moment it’s because he’s after something. ‘Any idea who’s taking over?’ he asks.
‘No idea,’ Jack replies, squinting at the sea and opening his paper.
‘I suppose we’ll find out when the bosses are good and ready.’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s a puzzle, though,’ Harry persists. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since I heard Brierley was finishing, but there’s been nothing in the paper. I asked that Union bloke… what’s his name? Tom Bell. I asked him, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. Claims he’s no idea who’ll get the job. I wouldn’t mind a shot at it myself. A damn sight more money than Alexandria. Bastards must have it sewn up. I reckon one of the family will take over, what do you think? There must be a useless uncle or idiot cousin somewhere who’s after a slice of the cake.’ Harry throws the question casually, but he’s watching for Jack’s reaction.
‘Aye, probably you’re right.’
‘They’ve always kept management in the family. Up until Brierley. And Brierley wouldn’t have got the job if both Foster brothers hadn’t jumped ship when war was declared. They viewed World War II from the comfort of their London club along with the rest of the fireside fusiliers. And Brierley wasn’t slow to cash in. God knows how much he made in bribes from cowards keen to be designated “reserved occupation”.’
Jack has heard all this before. Some people haven’t moved on since the war – instead of looking ahead to the sixties they seem to be still stuck in the forties. Jack is usually optimistic, always looking to the future but things have changed. The letter in his back pocket has drawn him back into the past so effectively that he struggles even to remain in the present moment, let alone consider the future. Jack suppresses a sigh and says, ‘Weather’s not bad, is it?’
‘Looks to me as if it’s spoiling for rain later. I hear you had a rough do last week. Little bird told me that you very nearly had a walk-out.’
‘It was nothing. Just a few troublemakers.’
‘Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You were bound to get trouble the minute you brought those Pakis in.’
‘The Pakistanis are doing the jobs that no one else wants, so they’re not taking anyone’s job. They’re working the night shift because no one else will.’
‘Well, I warned you. I said you’d regret the day you let foreigners in. They don’t know the first thing about weaving. You’ve got your regular weavers coming in of a morning and not able to do a decent day’s work. Those Pakis on night shift leave their looms in a right state. They’re either broken or choked with muck. How are the day shift ever going to make a decent wage if half their looms are out of action? They’re standing around waiting for a tackler to fix the mess. It’s why I won’t take on Pakis, I wouldn’t even let them sweep the mill yard. They’re all the same. More trouble than they’re worth.’
‘They’re not all the same.’
‘Well, they look it. Can you tell the difference between one Paki and another? It’s beyond me.’
‘They’re not all Pakistanis. Some of them are Sikhs from the Punjab or Muslims from Bangladesh.’
‘There’s no difference. They were all swinging in trees before they came here and made a beeline for the National Assistance. Fuckin’ Fosters – they draft in all these wogs and expect the British workers to lay out the welcoming mat. Buggers that were happy to work all hours for a bowl of rice back in India – no wonder they think they’re well off when they get here. And once they are here, this bloody country will keep them for the rest of their lives, one way or another. No wonder the minute they get here they’re filling in the forms to bring across their whole bloody tribe.’
Jack has heard this argument countless times and it never fails to annoy him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Pakistanis. I’ve not had any bother with them. They’re quiet, they work hard and keep themselves to themselves. Our weavers aren’t beyond sabotaging their looms before the night shift comes on and they don’t complain. And I’ve yet to see a Pakistani turn up to work still drunk from the night before.’
‘But that’s just it. They don’t kick up. Management can do anything it likes, and that bunch will roll over and ask for more. Seven quid nine and ten a week and they aren’t complaining. It’s a fortune to them.’
‘Aye, and how long does it last when landlords are charging them the earth just for a roof over their heads? And any money they do manage to save is sent back abroad to feed their families. They’re no different from you and me – they’re trying to do their best for their families just like us.’
Jack has first-hand experience of the sort of squalor that immigrants have to cope with. There’s so much prejudice locally that the only accommodation they can find is in houses that should have been pulled down years ago in the worst part of town. Last month there’d been a mix-up with the wages and Jack had ended up going round to drop off Ahmed Khan’s overtime money. He’d found Ahmed along with a dozen fellow Pakistanis sharing the same house. No furniture – just mattresses on the floor of every room. No curtains, just blankets flapping with the draught. They’d had a bunch of local lads round a couple of nights before shouting abuse and smashing the windows. The landlord was charging them twenty-five bob each a week. Despite this he refused to get the windows repaired. Claimed it was a waste of time – they’d just get broken again. No heating whatsoever and the back gate had been kicked in. Jack has read about the West Indian riots in London a year ago and he reckons that Lancashire’s Asian community won’t be far behind.
‘I blame the government,’ Harry says. ‘They’re saying there’ll be another election before the end of the year. The Tories have been a bloody waste of time. They behave as if we still had an empire. It’s not two minutes since they were showing bloody Gandhi around the Lancashire mill towns. They should have kicked his chocolate arse and sent him home. No sooner have we given these darkies their independence than the buggers are getting on the nearest banana boat and coming here. And it’s not just these wogs turning up on our doorstep; there are thousands of them brown bastards back in India flooding our markets with cheap, coarse staple cotton.’
Jack sighs with frustration. Lancashire cotton has been threatened by foreign competition before, but it has always risen to the challenge. The industry has invented new fabrics like Fabriflex – a combed cotton weave bonded to a plastic backing – and special luxury finishes on cotton shoe linings that make them feel like finest kid. There’s even talk now of producing fake fur fabric, if the Cotton Board can sell the idea to the clothing industry. Once the car trade had been sold the idea of replacing leather seats with cotton-backed plastic Leathercloth they couldn’t get enough of it. Leathercloth is wipe-clean, lasts a good deal longer and resists the stains that ruin leather. It’s a nuisance that Leathercloth smells of plastic rather than rich leather, but appearancewise there’s not a lot to choose between them. With the invention of all these new British fabrics foreign competition really shouldn’t be the worry that it is. Jack turns to Harry and says, ‘Give it a rest, Harry. I don’t want to spend my holiday arguing the toss with you about work.’
Beth has been sitting cross-legged at her mother’s feet during this exchange of views. She turns now and taps her mother’s knee. ‘What’s a wog?’ she asks in a stage whisper. Ruth appears not to hear. She is apparently immersed in her Woman’s Own.
‘Mummy! What’s a wog?’
‘What?’
‘What’s a wog? Is it like a golliwog? Like one of those golliwogs on the jam jar?’
‘Shut up and play quietly.’
‘But what is it? What does it mean?’
‘It’s what ignorant people call other people with different-coloured skin. It’s very rude. Don’t ever let me hear you using that word.’
‘But Mr Sykes does. Mr Sykes says there are loads of wogs at the mill.’
‘Do you want a slap?’
Beth shakes her head and moves out of range of her mother’s hand.
Jack returns to the relative safety of his newspaper and Harry, keen to make amends, says, ‘Aye, well. How are your lasses getting on, Jack?’ Sykes’s eye lingers overlong on the figure of Helen sitting in a deckchair at the other side of her father, her head still buried in the NME. ‘Would they like an ice cream?’
‘Well…’ Jack hesitates; he is anxious not to reject this peace offering but aware of Ruth’s silent fury.
‘Come on, Jack. They’re on holiday. Irene! Here’s a couple of bob. Go and get the kids some ice cream.’
‘All by myself?’ Irene objects.
Jack nudges Helen. ‘Give Mrs Sykes a hand with the ices. Small ones, mind.’
5 (#ued60d790-b058-5ec7-adc2-cec3306369d9)
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.’
