“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 canceled 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 neighborhood 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 bleachers 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 center 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 monopolized 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 firsthand 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 draft. 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.”