The Palace of Strange Girls. Sallie Day

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