Florrie takes two sixpences out of her purse. She gives them both to the boy and whispers in his ear. Red Hawk nods and, before Ruth can put a stop to it, he has given Beth a sixpence.
‘There’s really no need, Mrs Clegg,’ Ruth says. ‘Elizabeth already has some spending money.’
‘Oh, call me Florrie,’ Mrs Clegg insists. ‘Well, it’s the least I could do after my silly mistake. It’s only a sixpence. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to spend it on, won’t you, pet?’
Beth looks at the sixpence in disbelief – this is twice as much as the spending money she gets every Saturday. Aware of the extravagance, she holds her breath, awaiting her mother’s intervention, but there is silence. When Beth finally tears her eyes away from the sixpence and looks up, her mother glares at her and says, ‘What do you say, Elizabeth?’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers and wraps the coin carefully in her best handkerchief. Sixpence will buy a Range Rider Lucky Bag, a tuppenny sherbet fountain and a liquorice Catherine wheel with a pink sweet in the middle. Besides the usual sweets and cards all Lucky Bags have a toy inside – with a bit of luck Beth might get a monkey on a stick instead of the usual whistle.
Outflanked by Florrie’s generosity, Ruth is reduced to tightening her lips and watching, with mounting disapproval, as Red Hawk slides up and down the varnished walkway in his stocking feet. Beth is transfixed by his misbehaviour. He is wearing three feathers stuck in a rubber band round his head. His thick grey school shorts are ripped at the pocket and worn to a greasy shine on the bottom. Round his waist is a red and blue elastic belt that fastens at the front with a snake clasp, though it is not much use keeping his shorts up since the waistband is missing two of the belt holders. Beth is impressed. Red Hawk has several club badges pinned to his jumper. Beth has been trying to join clubs for the past year. All she’s managed so far is the Golliwog Club, and she isn’t really a member of that until her mother has finished sufficient jars of jam to send off for a badge. Beth has been campaigning for a golliwog pirate badge – much more exciting than the golly bus conductor or, worse still, the golly golfer. Red Hawk is wearing a Cub badge. Beth had harboured hopes of joining the Brownies but Brown Owl only wants Brownies who can join in the various activities like dancing in a circle round a papier-mâché owl on a toadstool and going away to Brownie camp. There’s the Girl Adventurers’ Club, but it’s not very adventurous. Unless you count always being polite to adults and kind to sick animals exciting. There’s Uncle Mac’s Children’s Favourites Club, but that’s hardly exclusive; anyone can join just by switching on the wireless.
Red Hawk has already bumped into one table and got tomato ketchup down his front, and now he’s shooting a bow and arrow at the ceiling. When he knocks over and smashes a couple of side plates his mother gives him a fond look and says, by way of explanation, ‘You have to let them have their heads. It’s only once a year. Holidays are holidays, aren’t they?’
Breakfast is finished by the time the couple from room sixty-nine appear. Jack has spoken to him in the bar once or twice. He’s a travelling salesman and Ruth reckons his ‘wife’ is out to get what she can – which will be a fair amount if you look at the way she’s dressed. All she ever has for breakfast is dry toast and straight black coffee. Not, Ruth notes, that it stays straight for long. He’s forever pulling out a hip flask of whisky to put a kick in it. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he says with a wide grin.
There’s some winking and groping under the table before she says, ‘Behave yourself, Harry. What will people think?’ It’s obvious from his reply that he couldn’t care less. He has a laugh like Sid James.
Breakfast complete, Jack and Fred Clegg wander into the Residents’ Lounge for a cigarette, deep in conversation about whether or not Blackburn will make the cup final next season. The eldest boy, Alan, remains seated next to his mother but his attention is concentrated on the other side of the dining room where Connie and Helen are standing.
‘Our Alan works for an accountant,’ Florrie tells Ruth.
‘Turf?’
‘Oh no, a proper accountant. With a fancy office and everything. Our Alan has been there for the past couple of years since he left school. It’s a responsible job. They rely on our Alan to do the local deliveries in the morning. It’s very serious. Some of those letters have statements, bonds, or even cheques inside. The senior partner, Mr Tyson, calls our Alan his right-hand man. And he’s a smasher at home. So good with the twins. They listen to every word he says.’
Florrie lifts the occupants of the two high chairs – a couple of heavy, flat-faced three-year-olds with matching sagging lower lips and dull grey eyes. Freed from restraint, the twins immediately fall into a fight, which progresses out of the dining room, through the lobby and looks set to continue into the street. It only stops when one twin cracks his skull against the sign that reads: ‘Guests are requested to ensure that their footwear is free of sand before entering the hotel.’ The infant bursts into tears and howls with such ferocity that his twin feels compelled to join in.
Deaf to the uproar, Beth watches entranced as Red Hawk continues to crawl around the dining room. When he disappears into the lobby Beth asks to be excused from the table and gets down from her chair. She moves to the doorway of the dining room and peeps into the lobby. Red Hawk is still shooting arrows. When one falls at her feet she picks it up. Close to she can see that he has a green and white I-Spy badge pinned to his collar. Beth solemnly strokes her cheek three times. Red Hawk signals back. A friendship is formed.
‘Are you a proper Red Indian brave?’ the boy asks. Beth nods eagerly. ‘Where are your flippin’ feathers then?’ Beth looks blank. ‘Look.’ The boy points to his headband. ‘I’ve got three feathers.’ He points to each of them in turn and says, ‘This one’s for I-Spy Birds, the middle one’s for I-Spy in the Street, and this one at the end is for I-Spy Car Numbers. I’m on my fourth now. And I’m head of the Wild Jaguars tribe. What tribe do you belong to?’
‘I haven’t got a tribe yet, but I’ve got this.’ Beth extracts I-Spy at the Seaside from her pocket and pushes it under his nose.
He barely glances at it before he hands it back. ‘That one looks too easy – I’m doing I-Spy Buses and Coaches now. They’re more difficult but I bet I finish the whole book by Saturday.’
Beth is unable to give Red Hawk’s achievements her full attention since she has spotted Gunner relieving himself against one of the impressive magnolia pillars at the hotel entrance. She has spent hours trying to make friends with Gunner. Beth is not allowed a dog of her own. She has asked her mother for one countless times, but the answer is always the same. Dogs are far too dirty to keep, they carry fleas and ticks, along with all sorts of diseases and they don’t care where they make a mess. There being no hope of acquiring a dog of her own, Beth is therefore on permanent lookout for a dog she can adopt. She is fearless in her pursuit, despite having once been bitten by a poodle on Halifax Road. Beth is convinced that Gunner can be persuaded into allowing her to stroke him if she is persistent enough. But Gunner is not amenable to approach. His tolerance for children as a subspecies is substantially below zero and remains so despite having been severely tested by Beth’s persistent kindness and relentless affection.
Beth, ignorant of the dog’s pathological hatred of children, still believes that she can make friends with Gunner. ‘Here, Gunner. You’d like a stroke, wouldn’t you?’ Gunner doesn’t look convinced. Beth, hand outstretched, creeps forward. Unable to whistle like the boy in Lassie, Beth is reduced to making clicking noises with her tongue and purring, ‘Here, Gunner. There’s a good boy. Here, Gunner. Here, boy.’
Beth and Red Hawk watch as Gunner bolts past them in the direction of the hotel kitchens. ‘I’ll get him for you,’ says Red Hawk, loading his bow with the remaining arrow and aiming at the dog’s retreating backside.
‘No,’ shouts Beth, grabbing the arrow. ‘I’ll never make friends with him if you hurt him.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ volunteers Red Hawk. ‘That bugger bloody bit me when I pulled his tail. I wouldn’t care but it were only a