The Lido Girls

Welcome to St Darlstone!

It’s the summer of 1935 and holidaymakers are flocking to St Darlstone’s magnificent lido on the British coast!

With little hope of finding a husband, no-nonsense Natalie lives for teaching, until she finds herself out of a job courtesy of her best friend Delphi. But if she can bring her rigorous physical fitness programme to the people of St Darlstone, maybe there’s a chance she can start again?

So Natalie takes on the Lido Girls. With Delphi’s handsome brother, Jack, on the scene, and Delphi’s desperate struggle to defy her overbearing parents and follow her dreams, Natalie must find the courage to face up to her own fears, and realise what she truly wants in life…

The Lido Girls

Allie Burns

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Reader Questions

Copyright

ALLIE BURNS

grew up by the seaside and now lives in Kent with her husband and two children. The Lido Girls is her first novel.

For photos and research that inspired the story go to Pinterest @Allie_Burns1. To find out about upcoming projects visit www.allie-burns.com or follow her on Twitter @Allie_Burns1.

To Alan Ashwell

Chapter One

The naughty boy

After gambolling to the edge of the board, the diver bounces from it in a seated position, using her behind to propel her into the air.

Natalie turned the key in her bedroom door, once for the latch, twice for the deadbolt. She tugged at the depressed handle, and only when the door was clearly locked tight did she drop to her knees and pull out a package from beneath her narrow bed.

Inside the cardboard box, cradled in crinkly tissue paper, was a white V-necked blouse adorned with the black silhouette of a lady mid leap, and beneath it a pair of black satin shorts. The uniform of the Women’s League of Health and Beauty. This morning’s special delivery.

She held the shorts in front of her. Gosh, there’s nothing of them, but… She smoothed her fingertips across the fabric and in one swift movement she was standing and unfastening the buttons on the shoulder of her gymslip. Her navy pleated one-piece, a uniform she wore every day, made her who she was and had done for more than ten years as both student, teacher and now Vice Principal. She couldn’t help but see her gymslip as a relic of the past compared to these glossy upstarts, harbingers of a new era, masquerading as a pair of shorts.

Is that what she was becoming herself: a relic?

The curtains! Before undressing any further, she reached across her bed to pull them shut and as she did she saw Margaret Wilkins cutting through the fir trees at the edge of the empty playing field. She had a book under her arm. Now there was a young lady who wasn’t living in the past.

In Natalie’s many years of physical training she’d not yet come across a young lady so dedicated to following her own fancies, wherever they may take her. Margaret Wilkins was a dreamer who thought nothing of skipping anatomy class because it was irrelevant, in her eyes, choosing instead to sit by the river and read a good romance novel. She was a girl who obfuscated her sporting talent with devilry.

But it wouldn’t end well. The college didn’t reward individuality; the system didn’t want change. You either met the expected standard or you were sent packing, and when it happened to Margaret Wilkins, which seemed more and more likely, Natalie feared that she wouldn’t be able to save her.

Natalie considered the gymslip hanging around her waist. She was one to talk about breaking the rules. She should be in her office dictating her weekly letters to parents. But how could she be expected to concentrate on her work when the insistent call of that package had been whispering, no yelling, to her from under her bed since it had been delivered that morning? You’d better be quick then, before someone notices you’re gone.

In the muted daylight she let the heavy tunic drop to her ankles, peeled off her thick woollen stockings, slipped on the blouse and then stepped, barefoot, into the shorts.

She splayed her hands over her exposed legs, redeployed her fingertips to read the zigzagged Braille of the elasticated seams that pinched against the tops of her thighs. Then she twisted her torso to get a good view of the shorts across her behind. She smoothed them again and then lifted her knees to skip lightly on the spot. The fabric glided across her skin with an elegance that spread to her state of mind, her movements, and she added a light bounce at the top of each skip.

Wonderful. But not meant for the likes of her, not really. They were as likely to introduce a uniform like this here at Linshatch College of Physical Education as they were to have a beauty contest; and if she got caught wearing these clothes, well she’d be in more trouble than Margaret Wilkins.

Angling her hand mirror this way and that, she inspected her legs in the shorts. Athletic, sturdy and of course, dove white. She hadn’t embraced the new fad for sunbathing; she much preferred to be on the move.

There was a knock at the door and the hand mirror fell to the linoleum floor with a clatter, but she hadn’t the time to flip it over and see if it had survived. She dived into bed instead, eyeing the keyhole, with nowhere to hide in her room but under the bedclothes.

‘Miss Flacker, are you there?’ It was her secretary, Miss Bull. ‘Miss Lott wants to see you in her office.’

‘Very good. I’ll be there right away,’ she called back, hoping Miss Bull wouldn’t think it odd that she hadn’t opened the door to her. ‘I was just er…’ There was no explanation to be had. ‘I’ll be with Miss Lott right away.’

*

The sight of Olympia in tram-sized lettering made the hairs on Natalie’s arms stand on end. She’d seen pictures in the newspaper last year; Mosley’s British Fascist party rally had filled every inch under that hall’s giant glass roof. Now it was the turn of the Women’s League of Health and Beauty.

Tributaries of the League’s members jostled into her as they left the station in one giggling river, and were lured across the busy London street to the exhibition hall.

She paused at the top of the underground station’s steps. It’s not too late to make a run for it. She wasn’t sure what she feared the most: Miss Lott finding out she’d come here today or her friend Delphi’s disappointment if she let her down. She curled her hand into her satchel, felt around for the satin shorts and rubbed them between her thumb and forefinger.

Delphi waited for her by the station entrance. She faced the imposing red-bricked Olympia across the road. Keen to make a good impression today, her friend wore an asymmetrical red felt hat and the feathery tendrils of her hatpin danced in the breeze. Natalie watched as she blotted the bridge of her nose with a puff, then lowered her hand to steady herself on the wall.

Natalie shook her head. Perhaps she should have done more to discourage Delphi from pursuing her idea of becoming a teacher for this increasingly popular movement. Delphi’s health made training for a career in physical education difficult, but many years ago they’d made a pact to support one another in their professional life, and she’d be true to her word. Today she would see just what this group was really like, and whether they were a suitable target for her friend’s ambitions.

The compact clicked shut. Delphi turned her head; her poppy-red lips spread to a smile.

‘There you are, Natty.’ She untangled herself from a group of younger girls in her path. ‘You look as though you’ve just arrived at your own funeral.’

‘Well, there is a risk that you bringing me here has murdered my career.’ As she saw Delphi bite her bottom lip, she winked to let her know that she’d been teasing. They linked arms, and joined the stream of women to cross the road.

‘This is going to be an education for you. The old establishment is being shaken up, Natty. Imagine if you led that change.’

‘I don’t think the Board of Education would listen to my ideas.’ Natalie sighed as they reached a standstill at the back of the queue. ‘They’ll argue that their way of doing things has worked very nicely for decades, and it will continue to do so for many more. And they’re probably right.’

‘Well, today you’ll see a different way of doing things.’ Delphi steadied her hat as she tilted her head around the older ladies in front of them, searching for acquaintances further up the queue.

They would see and experience enough today to feed the volley of correspondence between the two of them for at least a month.

‘And,’ Delphi continued, ‘I think you’ll be impressed. You’ve always been bothered by the way the Phys Ed colleges exclude girls like the ones here today. The League is for everyone.’

It was true; they were in the main privileged girls who trained at her physical education college, and with only five establishments in the whole country places were in demand.

‘Do you know what else, Natty?’ Delphi poked her in the ribs. ‘You’re going to see how much fun exercise can be.’

‘But we get enjoyment from playing lacrosse or cricket, or diving, and you know that.’ Natalie thought of the students’ ruddy faces out on the playing field on a frosty February morning. How could Delphi say that they didn’t have fun? She wrote to her often enough to report on the exhilaration she’d felt in the heat of competition, how the bond between the team became as present in the air as the steam from their mouths.

‘You did promise to give this a go today.’ Delphi looked at her closely.

‘Of course, if you’re serious about training with these people then I want to see what they’re all about.’ But Natalie’s approval was the least of Delphi’s worries. Her ill health put her under her mother’s control, and Natalie couldn’t imagine Delphi’s mother would ever agree to her latest idea. ‘I just hope it isn’t frivolous.’ She’d been taught that exercise developed good character in testing circumstances in the words of Madame Forsberg, her college’s founder. ‘I am worried about the lack of science in their work.’

‘Yes, I was a little as well, but times are changing, Natty. You said it yourself, the Board is too wedded to its way of doing things.’

‘I didn’t exactly say that.’ Natalie back-tracked on whatever she might have said in her letters after a bad day at Linshatch. The Board thought the Women’s League a bunch of cranks, and called their work unscientific and dangerous. It would take an event as major as another war to persuade them to consider another approach. ‘Let’s just see whether I think this is right for you.’

‘Just don’t be too sensible.’ She waved, spotting a friend from her training class, and left Natalie alone in the queue.

‘There’s nothing wrong with being sensible,’ Natalie called after her. The woman in front, a good deal older than Natalie, but with curls as luscious as Ginger Rogers’, turned to look her up and down.

Natalie was glad she had a moment alone to let the sting of Delphi’s remark fade. Yes, she had been prudent when she’d invested her father’s inheritance in her teacher training. It had meant she could support herself, but being responsible wasn’t always easy, or much fun.

‘Quick! The hall is nearly full,’ Delphi said as she returned. ‘They’re expecting two and a half thousand. That’s double last year’s rally.’

Delphi hooked her by the arm and swept her past the snaking queue. ‘My friend Francine is saving us a place near the front.’

Adorned with black kohl, stem-thin eyebrows, Francine took Natalie by surprise with a forceful hug more appropriate for a long-lost friend. Just as they passed through the arched doorway, a man edged by with a sign: house full; then his arm formed a barrier just behind Natalie. The whines and tuts of disappointed women faded behind them. Francine’s affections, Natalie realised, were short-lived. She’d already run on ahead, leaving the two of them to descend into the bowels of Olympia together.

The open hall teemed with women changing into their Women’s League of Health and Beauty uniform. Too late, she realised if she’d put the shorts on under her clothes she wouldn’t have needed to reveal her underwear.

‘Did you remember to shave your armpits?’ Delphi asked.

Natalie nodded.

‘Did you apply deodorant?’

‘Could you be a little more discreet?’ she hissed. But there was such a din that only those changing right next to them would hear anyway. She could hardly make out her own voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, regretting the tone she’d taken and seeing the funny side to it now. ‘My armpits are in perfect order.’ The laughter at Delphi’s fastidiousness loosened her muscles. The tension she felt from stripping off in a busy room lifted.

An older woman, with flesh spilling over the top of her worn girdle, shunted away from them. Did she come home from a hard day’s work to soak flower petals with baking soda and soap flakes, too? Had her family dined on bread so she could spend her housekeeping on two and six for her annual League membership?

‘Do you think the deodorant matters?’ Natalie asked, looking about to check no one was looking at her legs in the shorts. ‘The League’s instructions for appearance could put undue pressure on the members, don’t you think?’

‘Not at all,’ the older woman butted in, ‘how often do you think I get to think about myself and how I look? Not very, I can tell you!’

None of her college students gave a hoot about how their hair was fixed, or whether their gymslip showed their legs in the right manner – well except Margaret Wilkins perhaps. The rest were focused on the victory, on building character.

She looked about her while she waited for Delphi. Compared to these ladies her reputation at the college for being concerned with her appearance was nothing. Her waved jaw-length hair, gripped back from her face at the crown, looked really as dour as a schoolmarm’s bun.

Delphi was blotting her nose again. Her hairdo seemed so impractical, with her blond locks fastened in a complicated twist at the nape of her neck. But that wasn’t what concerned Natalie. For some inexplicable reason her friend’s nose always bubbled with tiny beads of sweat just before one of her sleeping fits. Extremes of emotion, including excitement, were just the things that caused her to black out.

At the sight of the sweat on her friend’s nose, apprehension descended on Natalie. What if Delphi does have a sleeping fit in the midst of all these women?

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ she whispered in her ear.

‘Please don’t,’ Delphi said with her usual soft defiance, powdering her nose to blot away the perspiration. ‘I’m tired of my health holding me back.’ She had slipped off her dress and was smoothing down the white V-necked blouse beneath. ‘What about your hankie?’

‘Blast.’

Natalie had forgotten the handkerchief. The League had been very clear that it must be pressed and placed in the left leg of her elasticated satin shorts. Not that there was much room for anything inside those shorts.

‘You’ll have to borrow mine if you get upset. They’re going to pay tribute to Prunella’s mother.’

Prunella Stack, the founder’s recently bereaved daughter, was now in charge of the League.

They followed the chattering girls through to the Grand Hall. The hairs on her arms stood tall again. The sweeping latticed glass ceiling, way above them in the heavens, was both a hothouse that at once amplified the chatter of two and a half thousand excited women, while also bringing them closer to the serenity of the clouds above on this grey April day.

She threaded an arm through Delphi’s and they smiled at one another, sharing the thrill of the moment, the tingle in the air.

A troop of women brushed past them as they marched up and down behind banners from their home towns or counties; first Portsmouth went by, then Yorkshire was followed by a rowdy group from Yeovil. On either side of the central concourse – the same dimensions as a swimming pool, though broader and longer than anything she’d ever seen – were steep-sided seats for the spectators: the children, sisters, brothers and husbands of the women demonstrating today.

‘I want to be near the front,’ Delphi said, ‘as close to Prunella as possible.’

Natalie held back, noticing the flashbulbs coming from the front. Prunella had been the main topic of many of Delphi’s letters, but they had to be practical and not get too close. They’d both told lies so they could be there today. It would do neither of them any good to find themselves pictured in the press, nor would it help Delphi’s career prospects if she had a sleeping fit right at the foot of the stage.

Delphi gave up on pushing through when an instruction came for them to sit down. They noisily lowered to the cool concrete floor and sat cross-legged. Delphi and Natalie squeezed into a row in the midst of a group of Scots wearing tartan ribbons on their shoulders, about half a dozen lines from the very front. They had an excellent view of the stage and the three-piece jazz band, but were safe from the photographers, and hidden from view should Delphi take a turn.

Natalie lifted her head and looked all the way behind her at the rows and rows of ladies, all in matching white shirts and black shorts. All with their hair set in waves.

For all their uniformity, the women inside the outfits were much more of a mixture than she’d expected. At her college there was a definite sort of girl who thrived there – she’d been one herself – usually wealthy, or as in her case, with a father in a respectable profession.

These ladies weren’t of one sort at all. Some were their age – surplus women as the press liked to label them, women like she and Delphi, in their thirties, still single and not much hope of that ever changing. The loss of so many men in the war had seen to that. Not that she’d ever give up the hope of finding a husband. Others around them wore more lines about the eyes, and had rounder hips. War widows, no doubt.

All of them, whatever their age or circumstance, had come more out of the need for company than exercise and so for that reason she should fit right in, but still she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was wrong to have come.

Prunella, with glowing skin, nape-length bouncy curls and a radiant smile, welcomed them all to this special memorial rally. The rumour in the Phys Ed corridors was that first the Women’s League founder, Mary Bagot Stack, and now her daughter, Prunella, the so-called Perfect Woman, had made themselves rich on a system of exercise with no grounding in science and no discipline whatsoever. They were simply profiting from lonely women like her and Delphi.

Prunella cocked a hip and bent a long leg as if she were chatting to a friend, not addressing a packed hall. As she spoke she maintained a smile at all times. Even as she wrapped her lips around an ‘o’, the rest of her face pulled the other way.

It was the newspapers that had given her the moniker the Perfect Woman. Natalie and Delphi had discussed in their letters what constituted perfect. The journalists who’d come up with the name were undoubtedly male but even so, Natalie had expected Prunella to be much more athletic. She showed good leadership though and she had charisma too. Perfect or not, she had captivated the Grand Hall.

Wherever she moved at least one photographer crouched in front of her, the flashbulb illuminating her every few moments. Delphi swooned, her red lips stretched to their limits by her smile. She was so happy and that had to be a good thing. Her illness had a habit of ruling her life.

Prunella’s voice echoed about the hall as she told them of her mother’s dying wish. How she’d hoped her work with the Women’s League of Health and Beauty, and her aims for spreading peace and cooperation, would continue.

A bugle blew behind Prunella. The resounding cheers faded as the lights dimmed, and their collective heads bowed. Delphi had warned her this display would be sad and yet still a tingle travelled along her spine. The tribute to Prunella’s mother was to be the Representation of War that she’d helped choreograph for the previous year’s rally.

First came the deathly rattle of the drum. Next the women erupted into the shrill whistle of Tipperary. Then the drums retaliated with a rat-a-tat-tat, before the assault of the bugles and then the women won the battle with the unity of their voices. The hairs on her arms betrayed her for the third time that day as a slow procession of women criss-crossed the stage; some bandaged, one a white strip bound around her eyes, feeling the air in front of her.

The sight of one woman as she propped up another, drunk with pain, clogged her throat with a fist-sized lump. She’d imagined her two brothers had been there for each other at the end in that same way. The idea that they hadn’t died alone had been a story she’d had to believe. One small island of consolation in an ocean of grief.

She wished she’d remembered to bring that damned handkerchief to tuck in her left short leg now. Delphi stroked the back of Natalie’s arm and then opened her palm to proffer her own crumpled hankie. The two of them held hands while Natalie blotted her eyes.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Delphi whispered.

*

The dance demonstration came to an end and they all began to march in formation. Each large group of them making up the spokes of a wheel. It put her in mind of the photograph she’d seen in the Times of last year’s Nazi rally in Nuremberg where they’d formed a human swastika.

‘What do you think?’ Delphi asked as they marched, knees high.

‘It’s more ordered than I expected, but it does feel rather that they’ve plucked their ideas out of the air.’

‘Just look how happy everyone is.’ They both checked along the line as they rotated.

They often came to blows on this matter. Delphi’s ideas were a little more abstract when it came to the benefits of physical exercise.

Delphi had stopped a few times to catch her breath during the dance and now as they marched she didn’t look too well. She smiled and opened her eyes wide each time Natalie caught her gaze, as if to say, there’s nothing to see here. But her nose was beading in sweat; her forget-me-not blue eyes had clouded over. All was clearly not well.

As the hall full of women sat to watch the choreographed cabaret on the stage, Natalie saw Delphi’s knees buckle. She made up her mind in that instant to take advantage of the pause.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Delphi asked as Natalie took her hand and led her down a covered walkway that stretched from the stage area and through to a dark corridor lined with doors. ‘Peggy St Lo choreographed that routine,’ she slurred. ‘I want to see it.’