jug of orange juice back to the waitress. Ruth does not hold with tinned juice, be it orange, grapefruit, or apple. Whole fresh fruit is to be preferred at all times. Water is not an acceptable alternative. Elizabeth is so clumsy she’d spill it.
‘You’ll have to wait until you get back to the room. I can’t be having you making a mess,’ Ruth replies.
The Cleggs appear to have no such qualms; their jug of juice disappears within minutes of their arrival and is refilled. This is promptly followed by demands for tea, toast and marmalade to keep the family going while they wait for the main course. The Full English arrives with another pot of tea and extra toast. Fred Clegg sighs and says to his sons, ‘Wire in, lads.’ As if they needed telling.
Fred and Jack go on to chat about the weather forecast and Florrie turns to Ruth. ‘What a pretty daughter you have,’ she says, casting her eye over Helen. ‘And how old is your little boy?’
Ruth feigns deafness and Florrie has to raise her voice in order to be heard over the noise of the twins nudging and pushing each other, and stealing food from each other’s plates.
Ruth gives her a frosty look. ‘Are you referring to my daughters?’
‘Oh, it’s a little girl! I’m such a fool. I should have known. It was the brown shorts that threw me. What’s your name, pet?’
Beth is not allowed to speak to strangers. She looks to her mother for permission. Ruth inclines her head – a nod imperceptible to outsiders – and Beth replies, ‘Beth.’
‘Elizabeth,’ her mother interrupts. ‘I don’t hold with all this shortening of names. It’s lazy.’
‘Well, long or short, it’s a pretty name. And how old are you?’
‘Seven. And my sister is sixteen.’
‘Well,’ says Florrie, turning to Ruth, ‘aren’t they grand? You must be very proud of them. There’s the same gap between my lads as there is between your girls. ‘Rob’ – she points to a sallow-skinned boy who is wearing an Indian headdress with three feathers – ’is nine.’
The boy pulls a packet of Barrett’s Sweet Cigarettes from the pocket of his grey shorts and, extracting a cigarette, he taps the end on the front of the packet and lodges it in the side of his mouth. When he is assured that he has Beth’s shocked attention he inhales deeply, glares at his mother and says, ‘I’m called Red Hawk.’
Florrie ignores him and continues, ‘There’s the twins, of course. And my eldest, Alan. He’s eighteen. Training as a clerk,’ Florrie remarks with some pride.
Helen glances sideways at Alan. He is leaning back in his chair drinking his tea and flicking the ash from his tipped cigarette into the saucer. He is a remarkably sharp dresser, from his wide-checked blue gingham shirt to his white socks and shiny slip-on shoes. His hands are small but clean, the nails well manicured. He is shaved and scrubbed to such an extent that his neck glows red against his collar. His ginger hair is parted precisely on the left and combed into a solid quiff. Helen is impressed. Aware of her attention, Alan pulls out a large leather wallet and flicks it open to reveal serried ranks of fivers, pounds and ten-shilling notes. Helen immediately looks away, but this calculated display of wealth earns a wink from the passing Connie.
The Cleggs have finished their breakfast but seem unwilling to leave the dining room. Their table looks like a bombsite. The cloth is crumpled and smeared with butter, and there’s dirty cutlery everywhere but on the plate, while only the folded napkins remain pristine. The Singletons’ table is an oasis of order and calm in comparison.
Florrie relaxes and pours herself another cup of tea. After a few moments she arches her back against the wooden chair and addresses Ruth. ‘How long are you here for, Ruth?’
‘We leave on Saturday,’ Ruth replies and busies herself with collecting the used napkins. She is relieved when Red Hawk’s demand for some spending money interrupts the conversation. 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
