she concedes. There follow a frantic ten minutes while Ruth tries and fails to fit the dress over Beth’s wool vest 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 vest and liberty bodice with it. By the time Beth emerges from the struggle her face is the colour of the rising sun – for a minute she looks healthy. In her haste to protect her daughter from any potential draughts Ruth yanks the vest 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 jumper 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.
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.
Jack 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, reorganising 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 moment. The little bastard has got a lass from over yonder in with him.’
Jack follows the direction of Dougie’s thumb and sees a strip joint on the corner opposite with all the hatches battened down. ‘Who’s he got in there?’ he asks, hard pushed to hide his incredulity.
‘One of the strippers. I didn’t stop long enough to get her name and there were no bloody point asking Doug. Pound to a penny he wouldn’t know.’
‘So where did you sleep?’
‘I kipped down in the Residents’ Lounge. I was OK till the cleaners turned up at six and threw me out. I’ve been hanging around here on the off chance one of the lads turned up. I’m chilled to the bloody bone and gasping for a drink. They won’t open the hotel doors before nine at the earliest.’
Jack puts his hand in his pocket and gives Dougie half a crown. ‘That’ll be enough to get you a pot of tea and some breakfast.’
Dougie brightens immediately and says, ‘Thanks, Jack. E-e, but you should have come with us last night. We had a grand time. It was a good do.’
‘Looks like it,’ replies Jack.
Dougie blinks his bloodshot eyes and rubs a calloused hand over his sickly face. ‘We started off at Yates’s but, God help us, we ended up at the King o’ Clubs.’
‘I’m surprised you went back there. I thought you’d been thrown out last time,’ Jack says as they cross the tramlines.
‘We were. It was Tapper’s fault. We sat through this load o’ guff about how we were going to see amazing things. Some tart wi’ her own version of ping-pong, half a dozen Egyptian dancers, that sort of thing. We’d gone in to see Sheba, the star of the show. She was billed as “six foot of exotic woman, naked as God intended, from the distant reaches of deepest Africa”. Tapper jumped up halfway through the spiel and yelled, “Well, bloody bring her out! I’ve summat here from Blackburn waiting for her!” It took three of us, mind, but we managed to get Tapper to sit down again and button his flies. Nowt would have come of it if some lard-arse next to us hadn’t said summat smart. Tapper only got to throw three or four punches before we were out on our ears. Never a dull moment wi’ Tapper.’
That much is true. Eddie Tapworth is the best tackler in the cotton shed. A giant of a man, he is built for the heavy job of lifting beams. He can keep his looms running all day. He’s not one of those tacklers who hang around making the weavers wait while they sort out a trapped or broken shuttle, or grumbling at Jack to chase up a shortage of spindles from the spinning rooms. Tapper sets to and does it himself. He could replace the used shuttles and put a fresh cop in faster than you could draw breath. He is one of the few tacklers who can reckon how much the shaft speed will increase when the leather drive belts from the looms shrink in the heat. If all the tacklers were as capable as Tapper, the foreman’s job would be a damn sight easier. When he’s sober, Jack has a good deal of time for Eddie Tapworth. But drunk it’s another matter. A few pints and Tapper would fight his own shadow if it followed him.
‘We’re off to the Winter Gardens tomorrow night,’ Dougie continues. ‘You’d like. It’s Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. Why don’t you come?’
Jack rubs the angle of his jaw and shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not that bothered, Dougie.’
‘Come on! You’ve not lost your taste for jazz! I’ve known a time when I couldn’t get you to play a waltz straight without jazzing it up. We lost work for the band because of it. You were Blackburn’s answer to Jack Teagarden.’
Jack’s expression is transformed by the memory. Laughter rumbles from deep in his chest while his grey eyes all but disappear above the curve of his cheekbones. He and Dougie got up to all sorts in the band before the war. He played trombone to Dougie’s trumpet. Jack had started off as bandleader – top hat,
