The Palace of Strange Girls. Sallie Day

instead. Makes a change.’

      ‘Oh, you’ll like it here. It’s good plain food at the Belvedere and there’s a bar every night,’ replies Jack, who is momentarily distracted by the quality of the damask tablecloth. He turns the material over and back a few times remarking the precision of the surface pattern in reverse, speculating as to the thread count. He runs his nail across the grain of the fabric to assess how much of the stiffness of the cloth is due to the weave and how much to the application of starch. Jack learned long ago that once you start looking at weaves it’s difficult to break the habit.

      Fred sits back in his chair and looks around the dining room. The walls are covered in flock wallpaper: deep burgundy acanthus leaves against a pale plum background. The room itself is bisected by a series of white pillars that support a ceiling heavy with ornate plasterwork and oversized ceiling roses. It’s what holidaymakers come to the Belvedere for – a bit of luxury. The hotel is fully booked and the room hums with the sound of mill workers and their families tucking into a three-course breakfast and making the best of an English summer.

      Florrie Clegg beams at Ruth and says, ‘It looks a nice place, this.’

      Ruth looks unconvinced. She has noticed a slow but irreversible decline in standards over the years. Still, any hotel that can entertain that couple in room sixty-nine – the salesman and his ‘wife’ – is already well on its way to perdition without any further help from the Cleggs. And as for the ‘good plain food’ – that’s a matter of opinion.

      Shortly after they were married Ruth made Eggs Florentine. Jack stared at the eggs and spinach lavishly topped with a classic cheese sauce (made properly, mind you, with a flour and butter roux) and said, ‘What sort of concoction is this? You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, Ruth. What’s wrong with broth on a Tuesday?’

      Ruth may have crossed Eggs Florentine off the menu but she is still determined to use some of the fancy recipes she and her best friend Cora collected at night school. Cora always said that the French names alone were enough to make her mouth water (Poulet Bonne Femme, Moules Marinières, Boeuf Bourguignon). They’d both had a good laugh about the pronunciation. Cora had a talent for making French sound suggestive. She’d thought up a whole list of things that ‘Moules Marinières’ might possibly mean – including sailors’ balls – until Ruth had blushed and covered her mouth with her hand. Despite her attachment to French cuisine Ruth is quite happy to leave out the garlic and downright glad to substitute water for wine. She has learned that it is no good putting Jack’s tea in front of him and saying ‘This is Quiche Lorraine’ – he is a sight less suspicious if she says, ‘I thought we’d have egg and bacon pie today.’ Or ‘I’ve picked up some fresh mussels from the market. I thought they’d make a change, boiled with a bit of onion.’ He will set to and eat the lot until the bowl rattles with the scrape of empty shells and his fingers glisten with butter and flakes of fresh parsley. Ruth is running culinary circles around Jack. And as long as she only does it once or twice a week, Jack is prepared to let her.

      Further conversation is abandoned as the two families order breakfast. Connie scribbles the orders down in her pad and disappears through the swing doors into the kitchen. Ruth has a set of rules garnered for the most part from Good Housekeeping and the writings of Elizabeth Craig. Rules are Ruth’s sheet anchor in the troubled seas of marriage and child rearing. Over the years she has developed an encyclopedic knowledge of how to behave – table manners and etiquette being foremost in her present considerations. A glance down the table confirms that her daughters are behaving as she would expect in a public place. Their voices are suitably moderated, their spoons half filled from the far edge of the cereal bowls, their elbows well in and their movements slow. Ruth watches Connie clearing the cereal plates from the Cleggs’ table minutes after having served them.

      ‘Just look at that family. Have you seen how they eat?’ Ruth whispers to Jack. ‘They’re like a bunch of gannets. I’m surprised they bother with knives and forks. I’ve never seen anyone eat that fast.’

      Beth taps her mother’s hand. ‘Can I have a drink, Mummy? I’m thirsty. Can I have orange juice like the other people?’ Beth pokes a pale finger at the Cleggs.

      Ruth shakes her head. There is nothing to drink other than a pot of tea. It is Ruth’s first job, when she reaches the table every morning, to hand the jug of orange juice back to the waitress. Ruth does not hold with tinned juice, be it orange, grapefruit, or apple. Whole fresh fruit is to be preferred at all times. Water is not an acceptable alternative. Elizabeth is so clumsy she’d spill it.

      ‘You’ll have to wait until you get back to the room. I can’t be having you making a mess,’ Ruth replies.

      The Cleggs appear to have no such qualms; their jug of juice disappears within minutes of their arrival and is refilled. This is promptly followed by demands for tea, toast and marmalade to keep the family going while they wait for the main course. The Full English arrives with another pot of tea and extra toast. Fred Clegg sighs and says to his sons, ‘Wire in, lads.’ As if they needed telling.

      Fred and Jack go on to chat about the weather forecast and Florrie turns to Ruth. ‘What a pretty daughter you have,’ she says, casting her eye over Helen. ‘And how old is your little boy?’

      Ruth feigns deafness and Florrie has to raise her voice in order to be heard over the noise of the twins nudging and pushing each other, and stealing food from each other’s plates.

      Ruth gives her a frosty look. ‘Are you referring to my daughters?’

      ‘Oh, it’s a little girl! I’m such a fool. I should have known. It was the brown shorts that threw me. What’s your name, pet?’

      Beth is not allowed to speak to strangers. She looks to her mother for permission. Ruth inclines her head – a nod imperceptible to outsiders – and Beth replies, ‘Beth.’

      ‘Elizabeth,’ her mother interrupts. ‘I don’t hold with all this shortening of names. It’s lazy.’

      ‘Well, long or short, it’s a pretty name. And how old are you?’

      ‘Seven. And my sister is sixteen.’

      ‘Well,’ says Florrie, turning to Ruth, ‘aren’t they grand? You must be very proud of them. There’s the same gap between my lads as there is between your girls. ‘Rob’ – she points to a sallow-skinned boy who is wearing an Indian headdress with three feathers – ’is nine.’

      The boy pulls a packet of Barrett’s Sweet Cigarettes from the pocket of his grey shorts and, extracting a cigarette, he taps the end on the front of the packet and lodges it in the side of his mouth. When he is assured that he has Beth’s shocked attention he inhales deeply, glares at his mother and says, ‘I’m called Red Hawk.’

      Florrie ignores him and continues, ‘There’s the twins, of course. And my eldest, Alan. He’s eighteen. Training as a clerk,’ Florrie remarks with some pride.

      Helen glances sideways at Alan. He is leaning back in his chair drinking his tea and flicking the ash from his tipped cigarette into the saucer. He is a remarkably sharp dresser, from his wide-checked blue gingham shirt to his white socks and shiny slip-on shoes. His hands are small but clean, the nails well manicured. He is shaved and scrubbed to such an extent that his neck glows red against his collar. His ginger hair is parted precisely on the left and combed into a solid quiff. Helen is impressed. Aware of her attention, Alan pulls out a large leather wallet and flicks it open to reveal serried ranks of fivers, pounds and ten-shilling notes. Helen immediately looks away, but this calculated display of wealth earns a wink from the passing Connie.

      The Cleggs have finished their breakfast but seem unwilling to leave the dining room. Their table looks like a bombsite. The cloth is crumpled and smeared with butter, and there’s dirty cutlery everywhere but on the plate, while only the folded napkins remain pristine. The Singletons’ table is an oasis of order and calm in comparison.

      Florrie relaxes and pours herself another cup of tea. After a few moments she arches her back against the wooden chair and addresses Ruth. ‘How long are you here for, Ruth?’