‘You won’t catch Ruth complaining about that. I remember when we were kids on Bird Street. She had some fancy ideas even then. We used to tease the life out of her, but she’d never change her tune. She was going to get married, live in a beautiful house and have two children – a boy and a girl.’
‘That’s Ruth. Always knows exactly what she wants. But I still think I’d rather be busy in the weaving shed than sitting by myself in an office pushing papers around. I’ll get round to telling her. I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’
Jack shakes his head. ‘No, no. It’s something and nothing. Not worth bothering with.’
‘Well, think on. There’ll be merry hell to pay if she finds out you’ve been keeping secrets.’
Jack looks at his feet and moves his hand unconsciously up to the inside pocket of his jacket where he has hidden the letter. There are enough secrets in there to keep him busy for a fair bit and then some.
‘Anyway, how is she?’
Jack looks confused; his mind has been elsewhere. ‘Who?’
‘Your Ruth.’
Jack shakes his head. ‘She’s jiggered after all the upset with Beth. She didn’t want to come away for fear that Beth wouldn’t be up to it. We ended up having a barney about it. Ruth needs a holiday more than any of us. Still, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. The first thing she did when we got to the hotel was to set to and clean the washbasin.’
‘But Beth’s goin’ to be OK?’
‘Oh aye. Give her time, she’ll pull round. She’s a right little fighter.’
‘And how’s your Helen?’
Jack smiles. ‘Still pushing to leave school this summer. It’s the usual do – she’s sixteen going on twenty-five.’
‘They’re all the same. Our Doug is only a year older and he thinks he knows it all. Never satisfied. “He wants jam on it” as my old dad used to say. Talking of which, just take a look at this.’ Dougie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of fabric and hands it to Jack.
‘Where did you get this?’ Jack asks, turning the square over and back.
‘One of the lads from Whittaker’s. Says this is what they’re turning out nowadays.’
‘Are you sure Whittaker’s are weaving this?’
‘It’s right what I tell you. Look at the state of it. Lowest possible thread count and sized to glory.’
Jack runs his thumbnail across the surface of the dry, brittle fabric and a small cloud of white powder rises. ‘It must be hell to weave. There’s no movement in it, no give.’
‘There’s more elastic in a tart’s knickers.’
‘I can’t believe Whittaker’s are using such poor-quality cotton staple that they’ve had to glue it together. They never used to use anything less than Egyptian or Sea Island cotton.’
‘Times have changed, Jack. You know that as well as I do. There’s no pride left in the business.’
Dougie and Jack reach the pavement where they part, Dougie for breakfast at the nearest café, and Jack for a Daily Herald and twenty Senior Service.
On the way back from the newsagent’s Jack finds a bench on the prom, sits down and reaches for his cigarettes. The pack of untipped cigarettes is embossed in the centre with a picture of a brawny sailor. Jack runs his thumb over the familiar relief as he pushes open the pack and lights his first cigarette of the day. Smoking is barely tolerated at home. Jack may smoke in the backyard or, if it is raining, in the scullery. Tab ends to be disposed of directly into the ash bin. There isn’t an ashtray in the house and Ruth refuses to buy one. Numberless though her household duties may be, emptying ashtrays is not one of them. Alcohol is subject to similar restrictions. The single bottle of sherry is brought out every Christmas and returned untouched to the darkest recesses of the sideboard every New Year. Ruth is running a house, not a public bar. She is teetotal, has been since the Temperance Society marched down Bird Street with their banners flying.
Jack sighs and opens the paper, but he’s too distracted by memories of his friend to read. Nibs was barely five foot six, thin as a rake. He seemed to be in a permanent sweat. His skin shone like it was newly oiled and he couldn’t speak without using his hands to illustrate his point. He looked like a windmill in a gale when he got upset. He had run a pet shop in London before the war. A typical Cockney – loads of patter and plenty of old buck when things weren’t going his way. But he loved animals. It didn’t matter where they were, there’d be some mangy mongrel or moth-eaten cat at his heels. In Heraklion Nibs had put his hand halfway down an Alsatian’s throat to pull out a sliver of bone that was blocking the dog’s wind-pipe. The dog had promptly vomited and then nipped Nibs on the ankle as he was walking away. He’d always taken in strays and the fact that he was in the middle of a war didn’t make any difference. He argued that there wasn’t much to choose between dogs and men. ‘Sometimes, even with the best will in the world, you can’t save them and there’s no point in even trying. It’s kinder to have done and put them out of their bloody misery.’ The memory is a bitter one, considering how things turned out. Jack shakes himself and rubs his hand across his forehead as if to wipe away the memory. He lights another cigarette and stares out across the empty sands, a look of hopelessness on his face.
It is Gunner, the hotel dog, who finally rouses him. The dog wanders up out of nowhere and lodges his chin firmly on Jack’s knee. Gunner is a Lakeland terrier, his coat a scrunch of grey and brown wire wool. One eye is dimmed with a cataract but the other is bright and what’s left of his docked tail is permanently erect. Man and dog sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. The breeze freshens, shifting grains of sand across the pink flagstones and rippling the bunting tied to the promenade railings. Jack has spent Wakes Week at the Belvedere Hotel every year since the war and, as a result, is regarded as family by Gunner. Blackpool at the height of the holiday season might disturb and overexcite any ordinary dog, but Gunner is an old hand. It has been a long trip for Gunner from ‘unofficial South Lancs Regimental mascot’ to Mine Host at the Belvedere Hotel. The dog is subject to the unwelcome attention of passing children and his sleep is disturbed nightly by hotel guests in various states of inebriation gaining rowdy entry to the hotel lobby. Jack tickles the dog’s left ear before taking a last drag and flicking his cigarette over the promenade railings. Standing up, he proceeds to fold the newspaper into three and, putting it under his arm, heads back to the hotel. Gunner meanwhile continues his route march along the prom in search of last night’s chip papers.
‘Looks as if it’s going to be another hot one, Ruth,’ Jack says when he sees his wife in the lobby. His glance strays to Beth, who is already wriggling with the itchiness of her vest, liberty bodice and wool jumper. ‘Hasn’t she got a summer dress to wear?’
‘Not today,’ Ruth replies firmly. ‘It could turn cold again; the wind’s got a nip to it.’
‘Give over. I’ve been out there. It’s not cold, it’s fresh. It’ll do her good to get some sunshine.’
Beth runs up to her father and wraps her arms round his legs.
‘E-yo-yo, Sputnik!’
Jack bends down to pick Beth up. He puts his arm carefully round the back of her legs and lifts her gently. Beth might be fragile but the spell in hospital hasn’t curbed any of her curiosity. She spots the letter in his inside jacket pocket in a flash. ‘What’s this?’ she asks, her fingers closing round the corner of the letter.
‘Never mind that. Are you ready for your breakfast? Plenty of porridge, that’s what you need. It’ll make your hair curl,’ Jack says as he strokes back a fine brown strand that has escaped from her ribbon. ‘I’ll just nip upstairs and change my jacket – it’s too hot for tweed,’ he continues, turning