In the real world, Freda’s father had simply been foolishly flattered by the attentions of a younger woman. At first, Gladys had made him feel young, and then within a short time she made him feel old. A story as ancient as the Greek gods themselves.
Why did Zeus need to put on a disguise?, Vanda mused, leafing through the pages of Freda’s book in a railway carriage in the no-man’s-land between Rotherham and Sheffield. “Surely you’d rather be tupped by the king of the gods than an ant? And how on earth would it work with an ant anyway? The size difference would be ridiculous.”
“Tupped?” Duncan snorted. “What are you? Little Bo-Peep? Call a fuck a fuck, Vanda, dear heart.”
This entire conversation was, fortunately, held in Freda’s absence, as she was in the corridor, hanging out of the window, getting smuts in her eye from the engine and putting herself in danger of decapitation. She was not averse to the thrill of danger.
In the face of parental dereliction of duty, both voluntary and involuntary, Vanda and Duncan were the nearest thing to a chaperone for Freda. Not Adele. Adele was all timetables.
“We’re a funny little family, aren’t we?” Vanda said.
“You take it where you can,” Duncan said.
* * *
—
And then Adele had taken Freda to one side and told her she had grown “too womanly” for the kiddies’ Knits and her service was no longer required.
“I’m sorry?” a confounded Freda said. How could she not be wanted? She considered herself to be very wanted.
“You’re demobbed, dear,” Adele said, with more sympathy than usual. （She rarely roused herself to emotion.） But it was true that, despite her elfin features and sprite-like demeanour, Freda had developed a highly visible bust and had embarked upon her “monthlies” some time ago, a disconcerting journey overseen by Vanda in lieu of Freda’s own mother. She had “growing pains,” Vanda said. What on earth were they?, Freda wondered. She had an image of being stretched on the rack.
“You’re advanced for your age, dear,” Adele said. “In every way.”
“We’ll miss you,” Vanda said, hugging Freda to her tobacco and Habanita-infused mohair. Searching in her handbag for some kind of parting gift, Vanda could only come up with a handkerchief, embroidered with a “V.” It was creased but “not used,” she reassured Freda. Duncan gave her his pack of （marked） cards. That was nearly a year ago now and Freda had felt grief at the thought of her companions going on without her in the drizzle of Darlington or Doncaster, but then learnt from a chance encounter with Adele in the Shambles a few weeks ago that the Knits were no more and Vanda had unexpectedly married a man called Walter who owned a building firm in Grantham, “of all the places,” Adele said, making it seem as unlikely as Timbuctoo. Even more unlikely, she had heard that Vanda was expecting a baby. （In triumph or sorrow?, Freda wondered.）
Freda had no idea where Grantham was, but she had a good idea of where London was on the map. She was already dreaming about living amongst its pleasure palaces. “Dens of iniquity,” Adele said. Freda had no idea what that meant but she thought that it sounded entrancing.
Duncan, too, it seemed, had abandoned wool, having taken a job as an assistant restaurant manager at the Scarborough Grand, but the odds must have turned against him because he was currently serving two years’ hard labour in Armley Gaol for gross indecency. “You don’t want to know what that is,” Adele said and then told her anyway. Freda had the great gift of rarely being surprised.
* * *
—
Freda’s school attendance at Park Grove, always sporadic, came to an end when she reached her fourteenth birthday, and Gladys announced that now she was no longer at school Freda was obviously going to have to get a job. Freda didn’t feel the imperative, she was happy to wait until she found an opportunity for stardom. Unfortunately, other than a couple of indifferent amateur dramatic groups, no one seemed to want Freda to model or dance or act （she was at an “awkward age,” apparently）， and certainly not for money. Pantomime season was a long way off and anyway Freda felt unsure that the Theatre Royal would be ready for her transition from village child to village maiden.
Gladys prompted her to apply for a job in a milliner’s in Coney Street. Freda thought it would entail nothing more than graciously assisting women to choose their next hat and was horrified to learn that she was to be confined to a basement, where she was expected to steam felty cloches into shape on a faceless, bald wooden bust. She lasted half a day before walking off in her lunch hour. The railway offices on Station Rise, then, Gladys said. Or behind the counter in the new Woolworth’s. Or Terry’s. Or Rowntree’s—surely they would take her on with her family connections?