Mothers and Daughters (11 page)

She was holding the silk to the light with reverence. ‘I daren’t put my scissors into this in case I slip up. There’s just enough to make a shift, straight up and down with a kick pleat down the back seam.’

In the end they settled for a deep V-necked back with a bow to emphasise the line, sleeveless, with a thin golden stole, elbow gloves and shoes to finish off the regal effect.

Rosa practised backcombing Joy’s thick hair into high beehive cones folded into French pleats draped over her ears like curtains. The effect was dramatic on Joy and turned a seventeen-year-old into a sleek sophisticate of twenty-seven.

‘You look like a film star,’ Connie whispered.

Joy said nothing.

‘Our dad would be proud.’

How dare she say that? Joy had no intention of being friendly now. She didn’t need Connie. She was
one of the girls in the travel agency now, dreaming of weddings and
Brides
magazine, saving up for G Plan furniture and honeymoons on the Continent. What they were looking for was a steady romance, an engagement ring and wedding band and children, in the right order. She wanted a kind husband to protect her and cherish her, her own home far away from Horace Milburn’s prying eyes. To be mistress of all she surveyed would be wonderful: a new house on a new estate with integral garage, central heating and a washing machine, a patio and garden to the rear where the baby would sit in an Osnath pram like Prince Andrew. She wanted a proper family of her own to cherish, a proper wedding and respectability that everyone could see. That would be the way to make sure that her sordid heritage no longer mattered.

Once she was engaged she would be on the road from Division Street towards fulfilment. What did she care for Connie’s degree, or a career with intellectual satisfaction?

It was Rosa’s idea for them all to arrive by taxi, squashed together, an overwhelming mêlée of perfumes mingling like the cosmetics counter at Kendal Milne’s. Hours of agonising preparations and grooming, make-up, spare nylons in the handbag, powder puffs, hair lacquer and Kirbigrips in case the weight of their hairdos tumbled down
and ruined the style; all the armoury for a modern girl. Auntie Lee had sewn underarm pads into the dresses to protect them from telltale signs of nerves, a back seat crammed with Cinderellas going to the ball.

The town hall was transformed from the churchy assembly room where Connie sometimes sat for hours listening to the Hallé Orchestra, into a candlelit ballroom with a glittery dome spinning like a diamond kaleidoscope overhead, catching the myriad sequins and shimmers of white shirts and silvery shoes as the dancers swirled around to the big band sounds of Corrie Caldwell’s Starlighters.

One glimpse into the ballroom sent them rushing for the loo and the powder room.

The noise of giggling girls, all pushing and shoving for the mirrors, eyeing each other up, giving silent marks out of ten, was deafening as they handed in winter coats and bootees, chiffon headscarves that preserved stiff bouffants from the Grimbleton westerly wind.

That first sashay onto the dance floor was important. The gang hunted in a pack until they got split up when it came to twisting time and the lads came edging ever closer to join in the dancing, among them Paul Jerviss, who scrubbed up smart in a dinner jacket. He eyed them all with interest. He looked so full of himself; Connie just turned her back on him and let Rosa fend off his charm offensive.

Rosa was the star on the dance floor. She wore a tight-fitting scarlet slub satin dress with layers of black cancan petticoats underneath that flashed as she swirled around. It was very theatrical but it suited her Latino looks. Cynthia Howarden played safe in turquoise brocade with buttons at the waist covered in material and inverted pleats, a style straight from the Butterick pattern book. Connie settled on an unusual shade of green grosgrain, a shift. Her sandy-red hair was already escaping from the armoury of pins into coils of curls, and one of the false eyelashes was coming loose at the edge, making her blink.

There were women in long dresses, some ancient sequined ballroom gowns, others in short cocktail dresses, and Rosa said that Sylvio’s team had been hard at work all day setting hair for the occasion into cottage-loaf buns, flicked-up ends like the Silverkrin advert and lacquered stiff into meringues.

Up on the balcony couples looked down from their tables on the dancers and Connie felt like a performing seal in a circus. It was an old-fashioned sort of dance, with waltz and quickstep, and then a bit of rock and roll.

There was a drum roll and the compere asked all the contestants to head for the stage to receive a number to pin on their dress before the competition began. They were allotted a partner to dance the waltz with so as to introduce them to the audience and
judges. Connie’s legs felt like spaghetti as Joy made for the stage.

She hoped all those misspent wet playtimes in the gym and Mr Milburn’s sweaty tuition would bear fruit. Joy would not be daunted, she was sure. She could lead a two-left-footed blind elephant round a dance floor, if required.

Rosa was also in the competition. She was ace at the twist and jive but they never had ballroom dancing practice at the convent so she was looking awkward. Then the music changed to rock and roll and she was out there showing off, as usual. Their partners were stiff and useless, so Joy edged herself away and added a few hand movements to liven up her pretty meagre performance. There were thirty girls on the floor, all putting their best foot forward, trying to get noticed as the panel of dignitaries walked around the edge of the dancers with their notepads. The girls felt like prize specimens in some cattle auction. Tonia was right, but Connie was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing so.

Cynthia waved to her cousin, Vinnie, who was one of the star judges. She was not allowed to enter. ‘Look there’s Denny Gregson, the centre forward. He’s so dishy,’ she shouted, waving again.

Joy was bearing up at all the attention. Her dress was shimmering in the light. Connie felt so proud of her. She really was the belle of the ball in that purple silk. The young football stars were handsome enough
in their dinner jackets and sleek crew cuts, and they eyed her with interest too.

‘Denny Gregson’s fathers’ an alderman, one of the judges too,’ Cynthia whispered from the sidelines.

‘Give him a big smile, Joy. Keep going, you look gorgeous tonight,’ her friends shouted, but she didn’t hear.

Then it was cha-cha-cha time, and more showing off in the red corner as Rosa wiggled her bum in all directions.

You’re not going to have it all your own way tonight, Connie thought. Joy’s years of being Little Miss Dumpy were long gone. She made Spanish movements with her hands and stamped in time to the rhythm. They all hoped it was good enough to get her into round two. Everyone was clapping, cheering her on, so she must be doing something right.

Then the dancing was over and there was another rush to the loo to repair faces, hair and laddered stockings, spraying on Coty L’Aimant before the supper break and cabaret.

‘Weren’t Rosa and Joy great?’ Connie said but her friends ignored her.

‘Have you seen Denny Gregson? Isn’t he the most?’ said Rosa, with a whistle.

No, Connie thought. Not this time, Rosa. You get everything: the lead role in the town play, dancing solos, sex when you want it, being God’s gift to manhood. You don’t need any more accolades.

Connie thought of all the effort Lee and Susan had put into her and Joy’s outfits. Would the Winstanley true grit see Joy through to victory? She hoped so. For all they still weren’t speaking, Joy was family after all. They were all she had now.

The finger buffet was a spread of sandwiches, puffy vol-au-vents, cheese straws and chocolate gateaux, but Joy was too nervous now to eat a thing. The fizzy Babycham made her hiccup.

They sat down to watch in awe as Joan Regan performed her numbers. She was so sophisticated in tight-fitting black satin gown with chiffony sleeves dotted with sequins sparkling in the lights. Then there was a sequence dance for the oldies, and some more twisting.

Rosa was bringing over Paul Jerviss and his student friends but when Connie looked at him all she could think about was Geraldine Keane’s tramlines of lovebites, and it made her smirk. She was determined not to dance with anyone. Then there was another drum roll as the judges announced the final eight girls in alphabetical order.

‘… Number 21, Rosaria Santini … Number 29, Shirley Unsworth … and finally Number 30, Miss Joy Winstanley!’

Cynthia and Connie were on their feet shouting, ‘There! What did I tell you?’ but Joy could hardly believe it. Down to the last eight out of thirty! She was pushed forward for the final line-up on the stage.

‘Our Miss
Mercury
represents the face of Grimbleton to the district for twelve months,’ said Alderman Gregson in a gruff voice. He was tough-looking, with a walrus moustache going grey at the temples, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He towered over the little mayor, who was weighed down with a large gold chain and looked nervous. ‘We will ask each of the girls to come up to the mike and say a few words about themselves and why they want to represent the paper. We are looking for poise and presentation at this stage.’

Oh heck, Joy thought. What would she say? The sweat was pouring down her cleavage, and thank goodness for the underarm pads. ‘Men perspire and ladies glow,’ Granny Esme said. The girls on stage were glowing like candles.

If only Mummy was here to see her triumph. Being a Winstanley had its advantages and she could listen to what the others said to get some ideas.

When it was Rosa’s turn she calmly sauntered to the mike as if she were born to the limelight. She paused and smiled at the audience. ‘Hi, I’m Rosa Santini. You might have seen me in the Little Theatre production of
Romeo and Juliet
. I love acting and dancing, and it’s my ambition to go on the stage. You may also recognise my surname too but I won’t make a plug for the Casablanca coffee bar just yet. If I am chosen to be Miss
Mercury
, I will look forward to putting the name of Grimbleton on the map.’
She paused, knowing she would get a good clap. It was a slick performance.

‘I’m Beryl Saddleworth. I’m a nurse probationer at the General Hospital, working on the maternity ward. I support the Grasshoppers each week.’ The audience cheered loudly. ‘My hobbies are knitting sweaters and going dancing. Thank you.’ She smiled weakly and almost ran off the stage.

‘My name is Shirley Unsworth and I’m sixteen. I hope to go to university. I play tennis for the school and teach in Sunday school at Longley Methodist Church. My hobbies are macramé and bird-watching.’

Now Joy was last for the spotlight. No one would want to know she worked for her aunt’s travel agency, or that she lived in a boarding house, or that she had made her own dress for the ball. What on earth was she going to say?

‘Thank you for your votes tonight,’ Joy smiled at the judges in the darkness, taking a stab at where they might be. ‘My name is Joy Liat Winstanley. I have come a long way to be here tonight, all the way from Burma where I was born. I wish my father, Freddie Winstanley, was here tonight to enjoy this wonderful evening but he was one of the forgotten army and like so many Grimbleton heroes did not come home to tell his tales. This town has welcomed so many strangers like me and given us refuge and a good education. As your representative I would look forward to being an ambassador for all that is good
about our friendly town. If not, I look forward to many more years of enjoying the lively news each week in the
Mercury
. Thank you.’ She paused, smiled and left the platform shaking.

All she wanted was to rush down into the darkness, to be swallowed into the clapping crowds, patting her on the back until she was sore. Why had she said all that? It was rubbish, the lot of it, off the top of her head, and yet she’d enjoyed saying it. It had just poured out in a gush. It was too serious for a Press Ball. She was too serious for a Miss
Mercury
. She must hide from her gang, pink and flustered.

A hand grabbed her arm and spun her round. ‘Not so fast,’ said a deep voice, and she found herself staring into the flashing eyes of Denny Gregson. ‘Can I have the next dance?’ he asked, looking her straight in the eyes. ‘You have such lovely eyes,’ he winked.

‘I need to freshen up,’ she stammered.

‘The next dance is mine then? I’ll be waiting,’ he said, leaning on the marble pillar. Her heart thumped with excitement.

The girls were squashed in the powder room, holding a conference, fixing shiny faces and suspenders, looking up at Joy with admiration.

‘You were great,’ said Rosa.

‘Nice little speech, playing on the patriotic heartstrings,’ Connie whispered. ‘What would they think if they knew what our Freddie really got up to in the
Middle East?’ She giggled but one look at the hurt in Joy’s eyes shut her up. ‘Good luck.’

Joy ignored her again. ‘I was only trying to be honest. It was better than saying I liked crochet and
Come Dancing
on the TV,’ she snapped turning her back on Connie.

You’re such a jealous cow, Joy thought, rushing out to see if Denny was waiting but there was no one outside. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted. He had found better game on the dance floor.

It was goodbye to any friendship with Joy now, Connie sighed. Why had she opened her big mouth again?

The band was rolling out the drums for the final announcement. The mayor and Joan Regan were with the judges on the platform, holding a statue of the winged Mercury to present to the winner. The ballroom floor was full of couples and the press men with cameras.

‘On behalf of the Board of
Grimbleton Mercury
, it gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of the contest. All you girls were grand, charming and a glory to the eye. It was a difficult decision but we were looking for someone who would represent the standards of our journal, decent, fresh and a credit to the community. We feel that Miss Joy Winstanley will fit the bill nicely as Miss
Mercury
1962. Come
and receive your prize from Miss Joan Regan … Thank you … Give her a cheer! Miss Winstanley? Where is she?’ he called. ‘The prize will be a gala night out with our own hero, Mr Denholme Gregson … I reckon the missus would have something to say if I take her out myself.’ Everyone laughed ‘Don’t be shy!’