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.
“I’ve bought some material.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s pink roses. It’ll look gorgeous made up into a dress.”
“Oh, let me see!”
Ruth unwraps a corner of the parcel enough to give Cora a glimpse of the fabric.
“Oh, Ruth. It’s lovely. I’d love a dress made out of that.”
“It’s called ‘Romance.’”
The women exchange glances and laugh.
“I should be so lucky,” Cora says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at me, Ruth. Married for all these years and still no sign of a baby. Oh, I long for a baby of my own to hold.
I’m fed up of being ‘auntie’ wherever I go. No one else has any problem getting pregnant. It’s just me.”
“Don’t be daft, Cora. Loads of couples have difficulties. And anyway, why do you think it’s your fault? What about Ronald?”
“Well, I don’t know. Ronnie has a difficult job and he’s quite often tired. And, of course, he’s out every night with one
thing and another…” Cora’s voice trails off.
“Well, there you are then. You’d better make the best of getting him on holiday.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, it is. You’ll see. You don’t need to be clever to get pregnant.” Despite the dim light Ruth sees the beginnings of tears
in Cora’s eyes. “There,” she says. “Don’t cry, Cora. It’ll all come right.”
“How’s Helen?” Cora asks, changing the subject.
“Driving me round the bend. She’s forever telling me what Blanche does, or what Blanche thinks, or what Blanche says. I’m
up to here with it…”
“Well, Blanche must seem very sophisticated to a girl Helen’s age.”
“She’s a bad influence. She was plain old Peggy Watson until she got her hooks into the mayor. You can laugh, Cora, but it’s
true. It was her horizontal charms that got her where she is today. And him married with five children. Of course, they’d
been knocking around together for years. They were doing all their courting in the back of the mayor’s car until he finally
set her up in a flat on Scotland Road. It was above what used to be Redman’s grocers. Anyway, the shop closed down during
the war and the mayor bought it. The paper quoted him as saying that he was ‘setting an example by investing in local business.’
It was enough to make a cat laugh. Next thing she’s changed her name and set up as ‘Blanche Fashions.’”
“She’s a woman and a half, isn’t she?”
“She’s a bad example. She treats Helen like a fellow adult and that’s asking for trouble. She’s still at school, for goodness’
sake. Helen’s so keen to work at the shop she didn’t want to come away on holiday.”
“Well, she isn’t the only one who had second thoughts about coming away, is she?”
Cora watches as Ruth shakes her head. “I still think it’s a risk bringing Elizabeth away so soon after her operation. She’s
not right in herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’ll barely speak and she’s still sleepwalking. She wakes up crying and she won’t tell me what’s wrong. She’s not right,
not right at all.”
“What do you mean, Ruth? They wouldn’t have let her out of hospital if she wasn’t right.”
“They let me bring her home because she wasn’t getting any better after the operation. Not like she should. They thought she
might improve if she was at home with her family.”
“And she has, hasn’t she?”
“Not so as you’d notice. I don’t think she’s going to get better. If she catches a cold, with the state of her chest that’ll
be it. She won’t pull through. Not a second time.” Ruth pulls out her handkerchief. “I don’t know what’s worse—her dying in
hospital or at home. And nothing I can do about it.”
“She’s not going to die! You’re worrying about something that’s not going to happen. Buck up, Ruth.”
Ruth wipes her eyes. “You don’t understand. It’s all my fault. When she was born I…”
Cora interrupts before Ruth can continue. “It’s not your fault. That’s ridiculous. Come on. Oh, I know something that’ll cheer
you up. Guess who I bumped into last week? Miss Wren.”
“Our old teacher?”
“The very same. Now sit up straight and recite after me… ‘The efficient running of a house, the effective nurturing and bringing
up of children in an ordered and hygienic environment, is a science in the truest sense of the word. It requires intelligence,
aptitude and full-time commitment. Never forget that, ladies.’”
The memory of Marion Wren holding forth on subjects domestic at the college on Ink Street is enough to make both Ruth and
Cora smile. The Diploma in Household Management course ran every Tuesday night. Over the four years Ruth and Cora learned
everything from when to clean velvet drapes to how to cook for a family of four from the weekly rations. By the end of the
first year Ruth and Cora were firm friends—if for no other reason than they were the only women who had a genuine interest
in the lectures and assignments. Although she wasn’t even courting at the time Ruth dreamed of getting married and having
children, and Cora, already engaged to Ronnie, was determined to be the perfect wife. A diploma was awarded at the end of
each year successfully completed. Ruth and Cora came out with a total of four diplomas for cookery, dressmaking, laundry and
child care.