Read Online The Palace of Strange Girls by Sallie Day - Free Book Online Page A

bastards and, under normal circumstances, barely bats
     an eyelid. But Ruth is easily offended and has a bee in her bonnet about bad language, especially in front of the girls. Jack
     looks pointedly at his daughters before giving Harry a warning glance and saying, “Aye. Tom Brierley finished last Friday.”
    “Irreplaceable, that one,” Harry mutters, “they’ll not find another crawler that fast.”
    Jack sighs and shakes his head. It was Brierley who refused to have Harry back as foreman after the war, so the company shifted
     Sykes to Alexandria Mill. Harry took it badly. Alexandria still has the old looms and as a result weaves tea towels rather
     than the fancy work that’s done in the weaving shed where Jack works. Even promotion to head foreman at Alexandria Mill failed
     to sweeten the pill where Harry was concerned—he was, as he was always at pains to point out, still being paid less than what
     he would have got if he’d stayed put. Worse, Jack replaced him as foreman at Prospect. All this has resulted in the relationship
     between Jack and Harry Sykes being strained, to say the least. If there’s a smile on Harry’s face at the moment it’s because
     he’s after something. “Any idea who’s taking over?” he asks.
    “No idea,” Jack replies, squinting at the sea and opening his paper.
    “I suppose we’ll find out when the bosses are good and ready.”
    “Aye.”
    “It’s a puzzle, though,” Harry persists. “I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since I heard Brierley was finishing, but there’s
     been nothing in the paper. I asked that Union bloke… what’s his name? Tom Bell. I asked him, but he’s keeping his mouth shut.
     Claims he’s no idea who’ll get the job. I wouldn’t mind a shot at it myself. A damn sight more money than Alexandria. Bastards
     must have it sewn up. I reckon one of the family will take over, what do you think? There must be a useless uncle or idiot
     cousin somewhere who’s after a slice of the cake.” Harry throws the question casually, but he’s watching for Jack’s reaction.
    “Aye, probably you’re right.”
    “They’ve always kept management in the family. Up until Brierley. And Brierley wouldn’t have got the job if both Foster brothers
     hadn’t jumped ship when war was declared. They viewed World War II from the comfort of their London club along with the rest
     of the fireside fusiliers. And Brierley wasn’t slow to cash in. God knows how much he made in bribes from cowards keen to
     be designated ‘reserved occupation.’”
    Jack has heard all this before. Some people haven’t moved on since the war—instead of looking ahead to the sixties they seem
     to be still stuck in the forties. Jack is usually optimistic, always looking to the future but things have changed. The letter
     in his back pocket has drawn him back into the past so effectively that he struggles even to remain in the present moment,
     let alone consider the future. Jack suppresses a sigh and says, “Weather’s not bad, is it?”
    “Looks to me as if it’s spoiling for rain later. I hear you had a rough do last week. Little bird told me that you very nearly
     had a walk-out.”
    “It was nothing. Just a few troublemakers.”
    “Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You were bound to get trouble the minute you brought those Pakis in.”
    “The Pakistanis are doing the jobs that no one else wants, so they’re not taking anyone’s job. They’re working the night shift
     because no one else will.”
    “Well, I warned you. I said you’d regret the day you let foreigners in. They don’t know the first thing about weaving. You’ve
     got your regular weavers coming in of a morning and not able to do a decent day’s work. Those Pakis on night shift leave their
     looms in a right state. They’re either broken or choked with muck. How are the day shift ever going to make a decent wage
     if half their looms are out of action? They’re standing around