The Palace of Strange Girls Read Free Page A

“Well, if these shorts and those sandals aren’t summery I don’t know what is,” she says. “I’ve only
     brought your sweater because we’ve got to keep you warm.”
    “Can I wear this?” Beth asks as she pulls a smocked cotton dress from the bottom of the pile. Beth has inherited the dress
     from her sister but has yet to be allowed to wear it.
    Ruth holds up the dress. “It might do,” she concedes. There follow a frantic ten minutes while Ruth tries and fails to fit
     the dress over Beth’s wool undershirt and fleece-lined liberty bodice. “It’s no good, Elizabeth. It’s not going to fit. Hold
     your arms up while I get it off.”
    Beth raises her arms as the dress is pulled up over her head, bringing the undershirt and liberty bodice with it. By the time
     Beth emerges from the struggle her face is the color of the rising sun—for a minute she looks healthy. In her haste to protect
     her daughter from any potential drafts Ruth yanks the undershirt back across Beth’s skin so sharply that the child flinches
     with pain. In another moment she is dressed in the prescribed brown knee-length shorts, olive-green sweater and thick socks
     to take up the slack in her sandals.
    “There. Now you’re done.” Ruth heaves a sigh with the effort involved in arming her daughter against all the sharp winds and
     torrential rain that Blackpool can offer in the middle of July.

2
Red-Eyed Sandhopper
    These little animals live between the tidemarks, chiefly under stones and in the rotting seaweed at the top of the beach.
     They are white with bright red eyes and five pairs of legs. Score 10 points for a bleary-eyed sandhopper.
    J ack has escaped early to buy a newspaper. With this end in mind he has made his way to the promenade in holiday mood. The
     sun is still a bit fitful but the air is fresh. He is easily tempted by the sea and so wanders over the tram tracks and pink
     tarmac to the edge of the promenade, takes a deep breath and gazes over the railings. The run-up to the annual Wakes Week
     holiday has been hectic. The weaving shed where Jack is foreman has been buzzing with talk of closure. Jack has spent the
     last week sorting out one problem after another, reorganizing shifts, dealing with strike threats and all the while continuing
     the daily struggle to keep output steady. Jack takes another deep breath and, determined to relax, gazes out to the horizon.
     The tide is coming in and the remaining strip of sand is empty save for a single figure, shoes in hand, making its way painfully
     over sand hard rippled by the tide. It’s Dougie.
    “Mornin’, Dougie! Up an’ at it already?” Jack shouts.
    The figure looks up and glares. Dougie Fairbrother is knee high to a grasshopper and walks like he’s fighting a gale. When
     he comes within hailing distance he yells, “What time is it, Jack?”
    “Just comin’ up to twenty past.”
    “What?” Receiving no immediate reply, he adds, “Twenty past what?”
    “Seven.”
    “That means I’ve been on this friggin’ beach for the best part of two bloody hours,” Dougie says as he makes his way slowly
     up the concrete steps that separate the beach from the prom. Jack shakes his head. He has known Dougie Fairbrother all his
     life. Jack was the first person Dougie went to when his wife walked out and it was Jack who got him sorted out with a solicitor.
     Dougie has developed a fair thirst since his divorce back in the spring. It’s eight in the morning and he’s still drunk from
     the night before. When Dougie finally reaches the top of the steps he stops to catch his breath. Dougie has worked in the
     weaving shed since he was fourteen, that’s the best part of twenty years filling his lungs with lint and dust.
    While he is puffing and blowing Jack remarks, “Aye, well, they say there’s no rest for the wicked. What happened to lying
     in bed, Dougie? I thought your lad had booked a double room.”
    “He did. But it’s otherwise occupied at the