Free The Palace of Strange Girls by Sallie Day

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.”
    Beth has been sitting cross-legged at her mother’s feet during this exchange of views. She turns now and taps her mother’s
     knee. “What’s a wog?” she asks in a stage whisper. Ruth appears not to hear. She is apparently immersed in her
Woman’s Own.
    “Mummy! What’s a wog?”
    “What?”
    “What’s a wog? Is it like a golliwog? Like one of those golliwogs on the jam jar?”
    “Shut up and play quietly.”
    “But what is it? What does it mean?”
    “It’s what ignorant people call other people with different-colored skin. It’s very rude. Don’t ever let me hear you using
     that word.”
    “But Mr. Sykes does. Mr. Sykes says there are loads of wogs at the mill.”
    “Do you want a slap?”
    Beth shakes her head and moves out of range of her mother’s hand.
    Jack returns to the relative safety of his newspaper and Harry, keen to make amends, says, “Aye, well. How are your lasses
     getting on, Jack?” Sykes’s eye lingers overlong on the figure of Helen sitting in a deckchair at the other side of her father,
     her head still buried in the
NME.
“Would they like an ice cream?”
    “Well…” Jack hesitates; he is anxious not to reject this peace offering but aware of Ruth’s silent fury.
    “Come on, Jack. They’re on holiday. Irene! Here’s a couple of bob. Go and get the kids some ice cream.”
    “All by myself?” Irene objects.
    Jack nudges Helen. “Give Mrs. Sykes a hand with the ices. Small ones, mind.”

5
Ice Cream
    Everyone loves ice cream, especially on a hot day. Where did you buy your ice cream? From a shop or from an ice-cream van
     parked on the sands? Score 5 points for a big ice cream!
    H aven’t I seen you working at the dress shop on Penny Street?” Irene asks when they’re out of earshot. “Do you like it?”
    “Oh, yes. I love it. I just work Saturdays, but Blanche has offered me full time over the summer.”
    “I thought you were still at school.”
    “I am,” Helen admits, “but I want to leave this summer.”
    “I’ll bet that hasn’t gone down too well with your mother.”
    “No,” agrees Helen. “She goes mad every time I mention it.”
    Helen looks closely at her confidante. Mrs. Sykes has a look of Debbie Reynolds. Her hair is newly bleached and permed. A
     professional perm—nothing like the frizzy Toni Home Perm that her mother uses every few months. Mrs. Sykes is the last word
     in style and not a hair out of place, despite the breeze.
    “I got this dress from Kendal’s in Manchester and I bought the hat at the same time. What do you think?” Mrs. Sykes raises
     a hand to the white feathers that curl round the crown of her head.
    “It’s a lovely dress,” breathes Helen, “and the hat looks nice against your hair.”
    Helen knows that the dress alone will have cost the best part of ten guineas. It’s pink with three-quarter-length sleeves
     and white turnback cuffs.
    “Thank you.” Mrs. Sykes smiles. “That’s quite a compliment from someone who works for Blanche.”
    It is Helen’s turn to be flattered. “Oh, I’m just the Saturday girl but you’d be surprised how many customers we get