Free The Palace of Strange Girls by Sallie Day Page B

Institute last Friday. You should have gone. They were playing all the hit parade.
     Tommy Steele, Cliff Richards, Billy Fury.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Mechanics’—there’s a bar on Fridays, isn’t there?”
    “They wouldn’t throw you out, you know. It’s mostly teenagers that go there.”
    “Oh, well, I normally go to the Methodist youth club on Fridays.”
    Irene Sykes bursts out laughing. “Oh, poor you! I don’t suppose they allow any dancing there, do they?”
    “Well, you couldn’t anyway. There’s no record player. But there’s table tennis and the only reason they don’t allow darts
     is in case someone gets hurt.”
    “They’re a po-faced lot, the Methodists. Don’t crack a smile from one year’s end to the next. I’ll bet they have you hymn
     singing every five minutes, don’t they?”
    Helen shakes her head. “We don’t sing hymns but there’s a prayer at the end. After we’ve said the Lord’s Prayer, that is.”
    “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Anyway, I heard Bobby Darin is coming to do a concert in Manchester next year. It’ll be expensive.
     You’ll have to get your dad to buy tickets. You’ll have loads of money if your dad is made manager at Prospect. I expect he’s
     up for the job, isn’t he?”
    “I don’t know. Dad never talks about work.”
    Mrs. Sykes looks into the wide innocence of Helen’s face and changes tack. “I’ll bet you have a lot of fun working at the
     shop. You must hear all the gossip.”
    Helen smiles. “No. Not really.” It has been drummed into Helen that it is common to gossip. This is a source of frustration
     to her since there is nothing more intimately satisfying than information shared with another woman. Confusingly, Helen is
     invited to retell gossip at home to her mother, but only when her sister and father are absent. Even when she tells her mother
     what has been happening in the shop Ruth, having listened carefully, doesn’t react as she should. Helen’s stories fail to
     elicit a single gasp or squeal of amusement from her mother. Ruth will only shake her head and say “It’s a disgrace,” and
     carry on washing up. Mrs. Sykes, on the other hand, looks like a woman who would appreciate stories garnered from the shop.
     It’s a temptation.
    “I hear Mrs. Booth is spending like it’s going out of fashion. I saw her last Wednesday coming out of that fancy hairdresser’s
     on Scotland Road and carrying four bags from Blanche’s. She must have spent a fortune.” Mrs. Sykes pauses in the hope of Helen
     volunteering further information.
    “I don’t know. I’m not there during the week.”
    “Haven’t you heard? She’s only come up on the pools! Her husband was too drunk to do it on Tuesday, so she filled the coupon
     herself—and she won! When he’d sobered up he was furious. Demanded all the money because it was his name on the coupon. When
     she refused he tried to get her drunk and steal it.”
    Mrs. Booth, thin as a stick and a committed member of both the Methodist Mothers’ Club and the Temperance Society, is known
     locally for her aversion to all the sins and vices that afflict her fellow man. When Mrs. Booth is on youth club duty she
     won’t even let them mess about on the piano in case they play the boogie woogie or, worse, rock and roll. The idea of Mrs.
     Booth filling in a pools coupon of all things is too much for Helen who, despite her best efforts, starts to laugh.
    “And that woman who lives on Reedley Road… what’s her name? Irishwoman—smokes like a chimney. Donahue. Mrs. Donahue. She got
     into a fight in the chip shop and laid out the assistant. Talk about ‘fryin’ tonight.’” Irene winks, nudges Helen in the ribs
     and both of them burst out laughing.
    Helen watches as Mrs. Sykes opens her white leather handbag and takes out a Stratton compact. She flips the lid open and powders
     her nose while Helen looks on, filled with admiration and envy in equal amounts. Mrs.