understand how something like a fashion show could possibly come under the remit of the urban council.
But then this wasnât any old ordinary âfashion showâ.
It had been organised by Dolly Mixtures McCausland and the woman with whom she was staying at number 12 Wattles Lane. By the âblack fellowâsâ mother, as one of the members had indiscreetly phrased it.
â You know the young fellow, donât you? The lad they say has all the brains. Of course you do. The black lad.
It is no exaggeration to say that the fashion show caused a virtual sensation. For days before it had been the talk of the place.
Dolly Mixtures by now had acquired quite a reputation and not just in the Good Times public house. Everyone in Cullymore seemed now to know her. And her songs. Even the children sang about Miss OâLearyâs cake, especially when they saw Dolly coming mincing through the puddles, delicately lifting her stiff lace petticoats, which were far more expensive-looking than anything seen before in Cullymore. Or, at least, that was how it appeared. Even though it might not have been true at all. For that was the thing about Protestants, somehow. Even if a Catholic had the same money as them â somehow the Protestant would always seem richer. As if Protestant money was worth more than Catholic. It was a kind of magic they appeared to possess. And Dolly Mixtures had it. It was as though a superior kind of light shone around her. Allowing her to do pretty much as she pleased. With no thought given to either consequence or restitution.
â
Mr Wonderful,
she would sing, twirling scarves and dancing around them, through the wet rubbish and broken eggshells of Wattles Lane.
â Mr Wonderful, thatâs you!
The children â though honoured â found themselves blushing and gasping in astonishment, as Dolly drew herbaby-pink lambswool cardigan around her narrow shoulders and gave them a wave, puckering, before disappearing indoors.
Grown women took to following her down the main street, sneaking suddenly down back roads and entries for fear they might be spotted. It was as if they couldnât help themselves, as if they were being consumed by a virus of envy far more powerful and voracious than that to which they were accustomed. And it appeared to infect everyone, almost without exception. In this, the sixties, what exactly was happening to the town of Cullymore?
The Green Shield Stamp Centre had got properly into its stride by late August â68, and by the time the summer ofâ69 had come around, an even more extensive variety of household appliances and fancy goods was being enthusiastically redeemed by the excited collectors and book-holders. Even the most modest of houses now were filling up with chintz armchairs and portable televisions, hairdryers, vacuum cleaners, garden furniture, toasters and expensive calf luggage that before youâd have only seen in advertisements. It was as if America and England had come to the town. First Blue Band Margarine,
Get Smart
and the Beatles, but more exciting even than any of them, the songbird Ruby Murray, in the form of Dolly Mixtures, who had the effect of making grown men turn into children. Turn into children and gibber like near-idiots.
As regards the âFashion Show â69â emergency meeting, there was one public representative in particular who hadseemed over-zealous to the majority of councillors. And there was a reason for this. One day he had been in the supermarket buying cigarettes when he looked up to find himself standing beside a tall and curvaceous, slightly plump blonde woman who had her hair backcombed and lacquered, and who had dark upturned eyelashes and painted lips that seemed on the verge of taking off on their own.
Ever so daintily detaching themselves from her face. At least, that was what was going through the councillorâs mind. As he stood there, trying to locate change in the folds of
But then this wasnât any old ordinary âfashion showâ.
It had been organised by Dolly Mixtures McCausland and the woman with whom she was staying at number 12 Wattles Lane. By the âblack fellowâsâ mother, as one of the members had indiscreetly phrased it.
â You know the young fellow, donât you? The lad they say has all the brains. Of course you do. The black lad.
It is no exaggeration to say that the fashion show caused a virtual sensation. For days before it had been the talk of the place.
Dolly Mixtures by now had acquired quite a reputation and not just in the Good Times public house. Everyone in Cullymore seemed now to know her. And her songs. Even the children sang about Miss OâLearyâs cake, especially when they saw Dolly coming mincing through the puddles, delicately lifting her stiff lace petticoats, which were far more expensive-looking than anything seen before in Cullymore. Or, at least, that was how it appeared. Even though it might not have been true at all. For that was the thing about Protestants, somehow. Even if a Catholic had the same money as them â somehow the Protestant would always seem richer. As if Protestant money was worth more than Catholic. It was a kind of magic they appeared to possess. And Dolly Mixtures had it. It was as though a superior kind of light shone around her. Allowing her to do pretty much as she pleased. With no thought given to either consequence or restitution.
â
Mr Wonderful,
she would sing, twirling scarves and dancing around them, through the wet rubbish and broken eggshells of Wattles Lane.
â Mr Wonderful, thatâs you!
The children â though honoured â found themselves blushing and gasping in astonishment, as Dolly drew herbaby-pink lambswool cardigan around her narrow shoulders and gave them a wave, puckering, before disappearing indoors.
Grown women took to following her down the main street, sneaking suddenly down back roads and entries for fear they might be spotted. It was as if they couldnât help themselves, as if they were being consumed by a virus of envy far more powerful and voracious than that to which they were accustomed. And it appeared to infect everyone, almost without exception. In this, the sixties, what exactly was happening to the town of Cullymore?
The Green Shield Stamp Centre had got properly into its stride by late August â68, and by the time the summer ofâ69 had come around, an even more extensive variety of household appliances and fancy goods was being enthusiastically redeemed by the excited collectors and book-holders. Even the most modest of houses now were filling up with chintz armchairs and portable televisions, hairdryers, vacuum cleaners, garden furniture, toasters and expensive calf luggage that before youâd have only seen in advertisements. It was as if America and England had come to the town. First Blue Band Margarine,
Get Smart
and the Beatles, but more exciting even than any of them, the songbird Ruby Murray, in the form of Dolly Mixtures, who had the effect of making grown men turn into children. Turn into children and gibber like near-idiots.
As regards the âFashion Show â69â emergency meeting, there was one public representative in particular who hadseemed over-zealous to the majority of councillors. And there was a reason for this. One day he had been in the supermarket buying cigarettes when he looked up to find himself standing beside a tall and curvaceous, slightly plump blonde woman who had her hair backcombed and lacquered, and who had dark upturned eyelashes and painted lips that seemed on the verge of taking off on their own.
Ever so daintily detaching themselves from her face. At least, that was what was going through the councillorâs mind. As he stood there, trying to locate change in the folds of
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