“Seventeen. We were married during the war.”
“Bit of a whirlwind affair then, was it?”
“No, not really. I’d already known him some years.”
“I’ll bet he was one of the first to join up, wasn’t he? Oh, didn’t they look smart in their uniforms? At the beginning it
was quite the thing to have a boyfriend in uniform. You used to see them when they came home on leave—swanning around the
dance halls and surrounded by girls.”
Ruth nods. Jack had turned up at church in his khaki uniform. He used to wear his cap at an angle that implied he’d been in
uniform since the day he was born. Even the regulation short back and sides looked good on him.
“Had you been going out with Jack a long time, then?”
“No, not really.”
After Jack joined up a number of other members of the congregation followed suit. Eventually there were no young men left
in the church. After a while it was suggested that the church ought to keep in contact with members of the congregation who
were fighting abroad. Ruth was acting secretary, so the task fell to her. She went round to the families and got the rank
and service numbers, and started writing letters of support. Most of them were ignored, but every now and again she’d get
a letter back—especially from those lads who didn’t hear a lot from their families.
“So how did you get together?” Florrie is full of curiosity.
“We started writing during the war. I’d give him news of what was going on in the town—church events, money-raising drives
for armaments, that sort of thing—and he wrote back. It went on from there, really.”
“There wasn’t a lot they were allowed to tell you, was there? I know when I heard that my first husband had died in Italy
I was amazed. I’d no idea he was out there. I thought he was still in France. Half his letters were censored. It used to make
me mad. All I wanted to know was where he was and that he was all right. I wasn’t after battle plans—I just wanted to know
he was OK.”
Ruth nods, although her experience was somewhat different. To read Jack’s letters you’d think he was having a whale of a time.
He didn’t mention the war once, though Ruth could tell from bits and pieces that he was fighting in Africa and later all over
the Mediterranean. He filled his letters with tales of what he’d done on his leave and his plans for the dance band when he
got home. He sent a photo of himself on a camel when he was in Palestine, said the locals were friendly. Looking at him, Ruth
didn’t doubt it for a minute.
“It always surprised me how those letters even arrived. The paper we wrote on was little better than blue tissue.”
“Yes, I’d write one way and write again across the lines when I came to the end of the sheet. Jack’s letters were the same,
like a coded puzzle when I opened them. I suppose I got to know him better and better over the months. He was mentioned in
dispatches.”
“What for? What did he do?”
“Jack won’t talk about it. He won’t even talk about his time on Crete. But his mother said he’d carried a soldier to safety.
He must have been in a fair state himself because he went straight into hospital when he got back to Egypt. Anyway, later,
when I heard he had lobar pneumonia, I started writing to him regularly. We got married the next time he was home on leave.”
“He’s an attractive man. You must have to put up with other women chasing him. It must be a right headache.”
Ruth stiffens at the suggestion. “Not at all. I worry about a number of things, but I never worry about him being involved
with anyone else.”
“But how can you be sure?”
“He’d rather die than do anything that would hurt his family. He’s that sort of man. Family comes first. Anyway he’d be lucky
to find another woman who’d care for him the way I do. He sits down to a full cooked meal and home baking every day. There
isn’t a spot of dust in the house, I make sure of that. He’d be hard pushed to find another woman who’d look after him so
well.”
Connie has merged into the surroundings so effectively that she’s been pretending to wipe down the next table for at least
five minutes and nobody has noticed. She has been eavesdropping ever since she heard Jack’s name mentioned. For all the attention
the women have paid to her she might as well be invisible. The envy she feels is outweighed by an overwhelming curiosity.
Ma Singleton’s account of their marriage has inspired the waitress. Connie can do a lot more for Jack than just look after
the house. And she intends to show him tonight. The moment the idea enters her head she is overtaken by impatience to see
him. It is with this in mind that she ventures even closer to where Ruth and Florrie are sitting and asks, “Will your husbands
be in later?”
“Well, mine would,” Florrie says, “if it was beer you were serving, love. And I don’t think Mr. Singleton will be down either.
Didn’t you say he was putting Elizabeth down for her nap, Ruth?”
Ruth nods her head and empties the hot-water jug into the teapot in the hope of diluting Florrie’s brew. This is exactly what
Connie wanted to hear. She abandons the table she was clearing and disappears with her tray. Back in the still room she makes
up another tea tray with a giant slice of cake and pushes it in the dumbwaiter. She then sprints up to the lobby and, seeing
the reception desk empty, dips behind the counter. It is a moment’s work to find the Visitors’ Book and ascertain the Singletons’
room numbers. The lift is out of bounds to staff—maintenance men, chambermaids, waitresses and kitchen workers are ordered
to use the gloomy back stairs. Bearing this in mind, Connie looks both ways before she steps smartly into the lift for the
third floor. Once there, she retrieves the tea tray from the dumbwaiter, no minor achievement since she has to haul the rope
the distance of three floors. She walks smartly to number 351 and knocks on the door. There is no reply. Frustrated, Connie
imagines that Jack must still be up on the next floor putting Beth to bed. She picks up the tray and re-enters the lift. She’s
visited Helen’s room often enough to remember the number. Once there, she stops and listens at the keyhole. She can hear two
voices.
“Do I have to put my nightie on?”
“Yes. You don’t want to get sand from your socks and shorts all inside the bed, do you? You’ll be a lot more comfy in your
nightie.”
“Why is my nightie hairy?”
“It’s made of flannelette.”
“Well, it feels fuzzy to me.”
“That’s because it has been finished. It’s been put through a machine with lots of sharp teeth that raises the surface of
the material.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that it scratches the cloth so that the little cotton fibers come up from the surface. They trap the heat. That’s
what makes your nightie cozy.”
Connie listens to the conversation for several minutes, hoping that Jack will finish putting Beth to bed and come out of the
room. At last she loses her patience and knocks on the door. It is some moments before there is any answer. The door opens
a crack and Connie is elated to catch a glimpse of Jack. “Hello, lover,” she says.
“Sh-h-h. Be quiet! She’s still awake. What are you doing here?”
“Room service. I thought I’d bring you a cup of tea up seeing as you won’t come down. I’ve cut you an extra big slice of cake—you’ll
need plenty of energy for what I’ve got planned for tonight.”
“This isn’t a good idea. It’s too risky. You have to go.”
“Well, that’s a fine way to talk. You didn’t seem that bothered about the risk last night. Come on, Jack. At least take the
tray after I’ve gone to the trouble to bring it up. I was hoping we could sort out about tonight.”
“What about tonight?”
“Where we’re going to meet. What you’d like to do with me—although I’ll bet I can guess.”
Connie giggles but Jack appears to have missed the joke. “You shouldn’t be up here, Connie. You’ll be in bother if you’re
caught.”
“I don’t care. They can sack me if they want. I can easily get a job somewhere else. Anyway, what’s happening tonight? Where
shall I meet you?”
“You’ll have to go. You’re not supposed to be up here. What if my wife comes up?”
“She won’t. She’s stuck in the lounge with Ma Clegg.”
A small high voice pipes up from within the room: “Daddy? Who’s at the door?”
Jack looks over his shoulder into the room. “Nobody. Go to sleep now, Sputnik.” Jack steps out of the room and joins Connie
in the corridor. “I’m sorry, Connie. I mean about last night. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Don’t say that! It was fun. We can have some more fun tonight.”
“No. It was a mistake. All my fault. I should never have walked you back, should never have started it, but it has to stop
now.”
Connie pushes out her breasts, balances the tray in one hand and slips the other inside his jacket but Jack backs away. “Don’t
say that, Jack. You know I love you. I’ll be finished by eight. I’ll see you at Yates’s. You said yourself, it’s no place
for a girl to be drinking alone.”
Connie throws her weight on to her left leg, pushing out her right hip and gives Jack a coquettish smile. Jack lapses into
silence. He eyes the top of the white waitress apron that fails to cover Connie’s breasts.
“That’s fixed, then. I’ll see you at Yates’s,” Connie says before he has a chance to reply.
“No! I can’t meet you at Yates’s. Half the lads at work will be there. We’ll be seen.”
Connie looks surprised. “It doesn’t matter if we’re seen. People are going to find out eventually anyway.”
“No! I can’t. You have to go now. You’ll be missed.”
“You can come to my room, then. I’ll wait for you there, shall I? Be there at eight.”
There is the squeak of bedsprings, the swish of covers being pulled back and a light patter of footsteps.
“I have to go,” Jack says, dipping back into his daughters’ room.
“Eight o’clock then,” Connie repeats as Jack is shutting the door.
There are always warning notices at the seaside. They are put there in order to ensure the safety of all visitors. Some notices
warn of high tides or flooding. Some warn of danger from overhead wires, or unexpectedly deep pools, or quicksand, or heavy
currents. The seaside can be a dangerous place. You must obey every sign you see. Score 20 points for staying safe!
B
eth has discovered a new game. It’s called “Follow Gunner” and it’s the best game she’s ever played. It all started when she
plucked up the courage to ask Mr. Titherington, the hotel manager, if she could take Gunner for a walk.
“If it’s all right with your mum and dad, it’s OK with me.”
Beth assures him that her parents won’t mind at all. She would go upstairs and ask but she’s been sent off to play and not
disturb them. A smile crosses the manager’s face when he hears this. Sadly, he is mistaken. Beth’s parents have sought the
privacy of their hotel room in order to finish the heated argument held over from that morning. Ruth is determined to get
Jack to agree to chuck in the foreman’s job and take the Union’s offer of area rep. She has detailed the reasons on several
occasions. Ruth can’t understand why Jack still won’t make up his mind. What more does he want?
Meanwhile downstairs their younger daughter is listening carefully to Mr. Titherington. “Here you are, then,” he says, passing
the lead to Beth. “Don’t take him along the backstreets. He’s a bugger for getting into dustbins. And mind, don’t let him
off his lead.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll either get into a fight or run away. You’ll not let him off, will you?”
Beth promises to keep Gunner on his lead but secretly she feels sorry for the dog. She believes it’s sad to tie up animals,
they should be free. The nurse tied her to a trolley in the hospital and it isn’t nice. It’s frightening. The thought stays
with her as she walks the dog up to the prom. Gunner is dragging on the lead. He isn’t keen to go. Beth stops again and strokes
the dog in the hope of encouraging him forward. Gunner takes a couple of steps and sits down, giving Beth a reproachful look.
Beth is convinced that Gunner would like it much better if he were allowed to run free.
She reaches down to unclip the lead and suddenly has a good idea. Why shouldn’t Gunner decide where he wants to go? If she
keeps the lead slack he could pretend that he’s free and just go where he likes. It would be even better if Beth closes her
eyes—that way Gunner could take her anywhere. But how to get the dog started? Beth tries several ideas (clicking her tongue
and flicking the lead across Gunner’s back as if he were a horse; pretending she has a sweet in her hand; standing behind
him and pushing) until at last she makes a noise like a steam engine: ch-ch-ch, the sound universally understood to indicate
the presence of a cat. And he’s off like a shot, dragging Beth down the nearest alleyway in search of the imaginary cat. Beth
is elated. She is forced to run at full pelt to keep the lead slack. “Go, Gunner!” Beth pants, shutting her eyes as the dog
careers down yet another alley.
This is the most exciting game ever. Beth is tugged blindly down foreign streets, brought to an abrupt stop at the edge of
roads and then, equally abruptly, dragged across at breathtaking speed. Dog and girl are in complete harmony, Beth giggling
with excitement and Gunner snorting at every lamppost and growling at passing dogs. Beth’s chest aches with laughter. She
opens one eye every now and again, keen to see where Gunner is taking her. Once she almost trips over a loose cobble and nearly
goes headfirst, but Gunner is still pulling so hard she is dragged back to her feet. She is whipped round corners, dragged
down alleys, hauled across roads. This is the best fun that Beth has ever had. Saliva drips down her chin as she gasps for
breath, her nose is assaulted by the smell of food—from hot dogs and boiled onions to vinegar, chips and hot sweet rock. Beth
imagines that they must be some way from the hotel now. Gunner has slowed down to a bright trot and Beth opens her eyes. She
is in the middle of a backstreet she has never seen before. She can hear the passing of traffic and fairground music in the
far distance. The backstreet is lined with high wooden gates, some of them locked shut and others wide open. Beth bends to
stroke Gunner. “Where are we?” she whispers.