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 to Ruth.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she replies. ‘I’ve left my scarf on the dressing table.’
‘No, you’re all right. I can pick it up at the same time.’
Once in the room, Jack reaches inside his jacket. The beige satin lining whispers conspiratorially against the thick envelope as he slides it out. He has had the letter for the best part of a week now and keeping it hidden is proving stressful. If he were at home there’d be no problem. Jack could have hidden it in his worksheets and textile patterns. As long as they’re neatly stacked Ruth never bothers with them; she’s no interest in loom specifications and the like. But here in Blackpool there’s nowhere safe to keep the letter. Not in the suitcase. Dear God, not in there. She’s in that case half a dozen times a day, pulling out fresh clothes for the girls and rearranging everything. She has a system. Everything in its place and a place for everything. At night she goes through all Jack’s clothes looking for loose buttons and dirty handkerchiefs. She empties the contents of his pockets on to a brass tray on the dressing table and puts his wallet on top. Finally she brushes down his jacket and, resisting the lure of the hotel wardrobe, hangs it up behind the door. As a result of her efficiency Jack has been driven to distraction – forever moving the letter from jacket to trousers as the situation demands. He had been keeping it in his shirt pocket until he noticed her eyeing him suspiciously at breakfast yesterday. Discretion being the better part of valour, he had retired to the toilet and moved it to his jacket pocket where he’d reckoned it was safe enough for a while. Now he takes the letter, folds it in half, pushes it in the back pocket of his trousers and does up the button. Manoeuvre completed, Jack takes off his jacket, collects Ruth’s scarf from the dressing table and locks the door behind him.
GANNETS
These are large seabirds with white feathers and black tips to their wings. They feed by plunging into the sea and catching fish with their long pointed bills. This habit of diving upon their food has led to their hungry reputation! Score 20 points for some greedy gannets.
Connie is run off her feet this morning. She has already seated an extra four families in the packed dining room when the Clegg family, six in total, turn up. ‘There’s a whole bloody tribe of them,’ she complains to Andy, the chef, ‘and I’ve only got a table for two left.’
Connie hasn’t worked as a silver service waitress before, but the manager of the Belvedere knows a crowd pleaser when he sees one. Connie turned up on his doorstep a couple of weeks earlier and was offered the job on the spot. The Belvedere is very classy, a dream come true for Connie. Her last job was at Stan’s Café, where she worked every weekend. She served behind the counter mostly, but she had to cook as well on Sundays if Stan wasn’t feeling up to it. It was Stan who taught her how to carry seven plates at once. She’d got the knack eventually, but not before she’d turned up at school on a fair few Monday mornings with a giant plaster on the inside of her left wrist. Connie is a cracker, in more ways than one. She’d caused such a sensation at the café that the place was packed with lads every weekend waiting for her to lean over the counter or drop a fork. Connie is just that sort of girl. Her scarlet overall looked decent enough on the hanger when Stan gave it to her, but when she put it on there was something about her curves that resisted confinement. And what with the hotplates and ovens going full blast behind her, it was only natural that she should loosen the collar. Connie sees no problem in the degree of male attention she excites despite, or perhaps because of, the ladders in her stockings and the buttons missing from her bodice. Stan offered her full-time work when she left school, but Connie had bigger fish to fry. She’d heard that you could pick up seasonal work in Blackpool. What could be better than spending the whole summer in Blackpool and being paid for it to boot? Stan was sad to see her go. Still, Stan’s loss is the Belvedere’s gain.
The hotel supplies its waitresses with a black uniform and a white frilly apron with a delicate pin-tucked front fixed at nipple level with tiny gold safety pins. Black stilettos and seamed stockings complete the outfit, along with a wisp of lace that passes for a hat, which is secured to the back of the head with white kirby grips. Connie is friendly and easygoing by nature, and has already proved a big hit with the head chef, Andy. It is Andy who yells at the deputy manager to put up another table and find an extra couple of chairs sharpish, and Andy who advises Connie to put the Cleggs in the alcove. If Connie hesitates it’s because her new friend Helen’s family usually sit there. But Andy is adamant. He has her best interests at heart.
When she arrives in the palatial dining room Mrs Singleton is at first
