The Dressmaker’s Daughter
Nancy Carson
Prepare to be swept away by this enthralling story of love, war and one woman who survived them both…Lizzie Bishop’s humble beginnings as a dressmaker’s daughter see her hope for nothing more than a simple offer of marriage. Love, passion and romance are reserved for daydreams.But then into Lizzie’s quiet world comes two men – one reliable and kind-hearted, the other heartbreakingly handsome. Just as Lizzie’s made her choice, the ominous call of war sounds, and her life changes again.Will Lizzie get her chance at happiness, or has it gone forever?
The Dressmaker’s Daughter
Nancy Carson
Copyright (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
MAZE
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Previously published as Eve’s Daughter by Hodder and Stoughton 2002
Copyright © Nancy Carson 2015
Cover images © Kateryna Yakovlieva/ Shutterstock 2015
Cover design © Lizzie Gardner
Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008134815
Version: 2015–04–23
Contents
Cover (#ub7884b47-fc8b-5b0f-899b-7726398c6169)
Title Page (#u0f07b9a0-1cd8-5887-a9e6-f3ca2085f14e)
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter 1 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
When he was alive many decent folk had wished him dead. Now, Isaac Bishop lay on his back, silent, unmoving, at last obliging them. His head was a gory mess of dark, red blood, drying, matted into his grey hair. The dented, old bowler hat he wore for work, Tom Dando had placed appropriately on his crippled chest like a black cairn. Elderly Doctor Clark had been summoned to the scene of the accident to attend Isaac as he lay in a heap at the crossroads where two public houses and the Bethel Chapel outfaced each other. And some would say it was poetic justice, profoundly ironic, that being hurled against the stout iron railings of the chapel should have ensured Isaac’s death.
Tom Dando pushed Isaac homewards on a squeaking handcart the greengrocer had lent, keeping behind the doctor, who headed the procession through the narrow terraced streets on his antiquated dog-cart. A growing band of morbidly inquisitive children drew up the rear in instinctive silence.
Tom Dando had always felt obliged to make sure that Isaac, his cousin and workmate, got home if they’d been drinking together; for Eve’s sake. Usually, the fool ended up draped across somebody’s wheelbarrow, incapable of remaining upright, comatose, snuffling contentedly like God’s dog. Tom regretted making that promise to Eve all those years ago. He would happily have left Isaac anywhere, at any time, to sort out his own salvation, for he respected Isaac even less than everybody else did. At least this time would be the last, Tom pondered, not without some satisfaction.
When they arrived at the house, the doctor insisted on breaking the news to Eve himself, and to Lizzie, Isaac’s doting youngest daughter. He’d had greater experience of such things. He knew how best to convey news of sudden death. And he would do it without Tom’s help, despite Tom’s assertion that it might be better coming from him. So Doctor Clark hobbled up the entry alone. Holding on to his hat with cantankerous defiance lest the ferocious March wind took it, he braced himself for the barrage of grief he imagined would ensue.
Tom waited apprehensively in the horse road with the hushed entourage, watching for Eve. A minute or two later she scurried down the entry, already pale and in a daze. Young Lizzie, equally bewildered, clutched her mother’s billowing, long skirt. Wife and daughter stopped by the handcart and remained still, like two shrubs frozen in midwinter. They stared incredulously at the bloody corpse that had been husband to one and father to the other, while the growing crowd of onlookers shuffled in respectful silence, waiting for somebody to speak.
First to do so was Tom. ‘Eve, my flower, I’m that sorry.’ Eve instinctively cupped her right hand to her better ear and leaned towards him. ‘Beccy Crump witnessed it all. I knew nothin’ about it till they fetched me out o’ the Loving Lamb. Did the doctor tell yer as it was Jack Clancey’s hoss what bolted and smashed him into the railin’s at the Bethel?’
Eve nodded, sighing gravely. ‘He told me … But does Jack Clancey know?’
‘He knows now. He was in The Four Ways having a drink. Sammy Hudson fetched him out.’
‘And what did he say, Tom? Did he say anything?’
Tom sighed, not knowing whether he should tell Eve what Jack had said. But he’d never tried to hide anything from her before, and now would be an inappropriate time to begin. ‘He said as how sorry he was. That he’d pay you his respects later … But he said as he wouldn’t grieve over Isaac …’
‘Like as not.’ Eve looked at her husband’s broken corpse and shook her head. ‘Best bring him in the house, Tom. I’ll see if I can open the front door.’
A few seconds later, they could hear the key turning inside, and reluctant bolts being coaxed to slide on their layers of rust. It seemed to Eve that the only times this door was opened was to let a coffin out … or a corpse in.
Motionless, Lizzie looked on at her poor father, at first unable to accept that he was dead; that the man lying on the handcart was no longer the father she knew and adored, but just a heap of dead flesh and broken bones. She drifted behind the random cortege as it contrived to station his body in the house, her adolescent mind in turmoil. She wanted to cry, but she dare not yet, not while there was a chance that this was simply some terrible nightmare from which she would be released in a minute or two.
But this was no nightmare. It was happening now.
People were beginning to speak more freely; quietly giving instructions to each other on how best to manoeuvre the handcart; to shift the rag-filled stocking that kept the draught out; for somebody to put their foot on the oil-cloth to hold it down; to prise the door open wider. But the handcart could not go through the door. Tom and the doctor would have to carry poor Isaac.
‘Eve, where’s your screwdriver, my flower?’ Tom asked. ‘I’ll get the middle door off to lay him on. I’ve already sent for Annie Soap to come and lay him out.’
Eve hesitated, perplexed, unable to contemplate the whereabouts of a screwdriver. When she’d collected her thoughts she went to the brewhouse, ignoring a hen that was strutting the back yard with defiant composure. She returned clutching a screwdriver.
While Tom Dando was inside, removing the door between the whitewashed scullery and the seldom-used front room from its hinges, Lizzie gazed into the open, unseeing eyes of her father. The thought of him dying had never crossed her mind. She at least did not want him dead. She wanted him alive. She wanted him to call her on a Sunday morning to get ready for church; to bring her toffee apples on Friday evenings when he returned from work. She wanted him to ruffle her nut-brown hair whenever he walked past her, even though it always infuriated her. She wanted his fatherly squeeze from time to time. Now all that was gone; gone forever. Nobody could ever take his place. Nobody could ever be to her what he had been. Never again would she see his hearty, laughing face, or hear his hoarse chuckles. Never again would she see him enjoy a meal, then fall asleep in his chair. Eve moved to Lizzie’s side and wrapped her arms about her and held her tight, reading her daughter’s thoughts. Lizzie turned and buried her face in Eve’s ample bosom. Tears stung her eyes, and she let out an involuntary whimper, then a great angry scream of grief that seemed to gush out of her in frantic escape.
Her father was dead, and Jack Clancey’s horse had killed him. It was Jack Clancey’s fault. If he had driven the milk float into her father deliberately it would have been no greater murder. Where was Jack Clancey when it happened? Why wasn’t he looking after the animal? It was Jack Clancey who deserved to be knocked down, not her poor unsuspecting father. It was Jack Clancey who should be lying lifeless, laid out on a door.
*
That was four years ago. Lizzie Bishop still resented Jack Clancey. But four years is a quarter of a lifetime to a young lady of sixteen. And in a quarter of a lifetime, many of the prejudices that are diligently nurtured by refusing to forget the wrongdoing that once hurt you, can be conveniently shifted or overlooked when nature diverts your attention. Thus it was one summer Sunday in 1906.
Lizzie Bishop’s thoughts were much removed from her father. Her self esteem was high. With her white leather-bound prayer book clasped demurely in front of her she felt special, and knew she looked her best. Love, she was certain, could not be long coming. She had begun dreaming of love, and longed to taste it; to experience the potent emotions that drove others to behave in ways that ordinarily seemed totally out of character.
She stole another glance at Jesse Clancey, Jack’s only son. He was tall and fair, with a lovely drooping moustache that widened enormously when he smiled, which was often, and his steel-blue eyes radiated sincerity and compassion. He was amiable, unassuming and well liked. The low sun behind him glinted off his blond hair, and Lizzie contemplated how magnificent he looked. Her own dancing hazel eyes, if only he were perceptive enough to read their expression, hinted at a stimulating inner turbulence, a vivacious adolescent desire. Jesse was standing just a few feet from her; close enough for her to touch, close enough for her to hold. But so maddeningly out of her reach.
Lizzie could feel Jesse’s eyes on her as she swayed her shoulders to and fro self-consciously. She ought not to, but she glanced at him from under her long lashes because she could not help it. It taxed her diminishing willpower too much not to admire him and, as she returned his hopeful smile, she felt herself blush. With a casualness she did not feel she turned away and, to hide her blushes, looked down with contrived composure at her best shoes. Why did she have to colour up so vividly? Why did she have to show her partiality by blushing?
He smiled again. ‘Nice outfit, Lizzie,’ he said privately, so that nobody else could hear. ‘Suits you.’
She sensed his shyness, and understood the courage he’d had to summon to say it. ‘Thank you,’ she replied with equal diffidence, but retaining her smile.
Her outfit was in the Gibson Girl style. It used to belong to her older sister, Lucy, and was a bit out of date, but that was forgivable: there was no money these days for new, more fashionable clothes. Besides, Eve had altered it to fit, and it fitted perfectly. It fitted so well that Lizzie hoped it would turn not just Jesse’s head; Stanley Dando was equally desirable. The long, navy skirt with the belt drawn in tight, accentuated her small waist, and neatly tucked in it was the white striped shirt that emphasised her firm, young bosom, gently rising and falling with each smiling, eager breath. The girlish set of her head was enhanced by a tilted, straw boater with navy hatband that sat on top of a mound of lush, piled-up hair, an errant wisp of which contrived to caress her elegant neck.
Jesse’s mother, Ezme, overhearing her son’s compliment, scornfully gave Lizzie the once-over, scrutinising her lovely second-hand outfit for faults, mismatched seams, an uneven hem, poor finishing; anything to decry Eve’s handiwork. But she would find no such fault. Eve was Ezme’s rival and equal when it came to mending and dressmaking. The Clanceys lived near the Bishops in Cromwell Street, but neither Ezme nor Eve ever had a kind word to say about each other, even before Jack’s horse caused Isaac’s death.
Lizzie was convinced that the dressmaking was the cause of this acute rivalry. Ezme was an adept seamstress and supplemented the family’s income by it. And, although she was no better at it than Eve, she certainly believed she was. It galled Ezme that Eve did not do it for money; that she did it out of kindness. So they sustained a senseless antagonism; antagonism that had pervaded even Lizzie’s own easy-going attitude. It was all the more difficult therefore, all the more futile, to respond in the way she would dearly love to respond to Jesse, should he ever pluck up the courage to defy his mother and the prejudice invoked by that fatal accident four years ago. What a dilemma it would create! But it was a dilemma she would welcome with all her heart.
Ezme was a big, intimidating woman, almost masculine, though it was said she had not always been so. As a young woman, when she moved to Dudley from Darlaston to marry, she was said to have possessed striking looks. She was also headstrong. Certainly she was too much of a match for Jack, who hovered about her like a mere accessory.
The group, conscious of the ever-present tension between Eve and Ezme, were conversing blandly, discussing the imminent departure of the vicar, the Reverend Mr Nelson Crowshaw, and wondering whether they would approve of the new incumbent.
Beccy Crump, Eve’s next door neighbour, said, ‘I hear as old Doctor Clark’s about to retire, an’ all.’
‘Fancy,’ Eve replied with interest, her hand to her ear.
‘They say as he’s handing over his practice to his son.’
Eve sighed her approval. ‘To Donald? Oh, bless him. He’s a lovely lad, is Donald. A good doctor, an’ all, or so I heard.’
Jesse Clancey, meanwhile, could not take his eyes off Lizzie. She was as exquisite as a young princess and frisky as a foal, but he was painfully aware she was nine years his junior. Nine years that he perceived as an obstacle. Nine years that were inhibiting him from making a fool of himself. The family dairy business depended on the goodwill of its customers, so any disparagement through foolish encounters with girls, who were dangerously young, would be unprofitable. More significantly, this nine year age gap forestalled any wrath and derision from his mother, for he, too, was aware that she held Eve, and thus Lizzie, in huge contempt.
Lizzie discovered Jesse’s age by casually asking neighbours. Socialising was not encouraged, so she could never ask him directly, of course, even though they lived so close. But she could dream of him, yearn for him; and they could exchange secret smiles. Lizzie was flattered to receive the admiring glances of a man so much older. It somehow confirmed her own womanhood, her own desirability. If only he would pluck up the courage to ask her out.
Church on a Sunday evening was more of a social than a religious affair, and it wanted at least five minutes yet before they would go inside. So Lizzie, not harkening to the soft Sunday voices of her mother and the others as they stood gossiping, tilted her face towards the sun’s deepening, yellow glow, which was falling warm on her face. Momentarily, she closed her eyes, savouring the pleasure of it. Silver birches were casting long, cool shadows over the monolithic graves of wealthier families, and the doves that dwelt in the bell tower flapped fussily as they vied for best roosts. A bee, hindered in its flight home by its own diligence, hummed with optimism around a final bunch of tulips on one of the lesser graves. Lizzie imagined herself standing outside some country church immersed in rural stillness. But, tomorrow, the forge close by would violate this enviable peace. The ground would tremble to the thud, thud of massive board hammers, as if a giant’s heart were pounding beneath your feet. In adjacent streets, the cupolas of hot, sulphurous foundries would roar more terrifyingly than the furnaces of Bedlam. Pit heads with their big, rumbling wheels, and the clanking, hissing steam engines that powered them, were also within sight and earshot; and men would be calling to each other over the din of it all.
Yet all was so serene now.
Aunt Sarah Dando arrived at last, with Sylvia and Stanley. Sylvia was quite the young lady now, twenty years old with dark, wavy hair, and an inch or two taller than Lizzie; her face was thinner, but her eyes were bright. She walked and stood proudly, and when she smiled she revealed a lovely set of even teeth. Lizzie noticed how she, too, kept glancing at Jesse, smiling coquettishly when he chose to look her way.
Lizzie calculatingly detached herself from the group, which by now had granted token observance to the perennial walnut of women’s suffrage, and was discussing Bella Dowty’s ulcerated legs. One sure way to divert Jesse’s interest away from Sylvia, she reckoned, was to make him jealous. A ploy she’d learned some time ago. So she moved to talk to Stanley, her second cousin, with whom she enjoyed an easy friendship. She flirted openly with him, touching his arm with agonising familiarity when she spoke, tormenting Jesse.
Stanley was eighteen, tall and wiry, with dark curly hair. He had a clear complexion, a pretty face for a lad – even prettier than his sister – and a mouth that Lizzie increasingly considered was extraordinarily kissable. As children they used to play games that involved stealing a kiss or two. But now she was older and growing inexorably more interested in kissing, the notion of doing it properly had appealed for some time, but with increasing intensity lately. And if she could not be kissed by Jesse Clancey with his lovely moustache, who better than Stanley?
Stanley, for his part, was entertaining similar fantasies about Lizzie. Six months ago he wouldn’t have given her a second thought; after all, they were so familiar; like brother and sister almost. But, lately, she’d blossomed into such a desirable young woman, and he regarded her now in a different light. He’d not met any girl he would rather see undressed. Her beautiful eyes seemed to sparkle with vitality, and always with a taunting frolicsome look, and he was sure she was thinking thoughts as impious as his own. It was certain she would allow him to undress her if he applied himself sensitively.
‘Where’s Uncle Tom, Stanley?’ Lizzie enquired.
‘In The Freebodies. He wanted a quick pint before the service. Said he was thirsty.’
She felt Jesse’s eyes on her again, but she could afford to disregard his admiring stares now she’d found less controversial company in Stanley. She said: ‘We’ll see the new vicar tonight, Stanley. That’s why a lot have come, I daresay. There’s folk here I haven’t seen for ages. If ours don’t hurry up and finish their chin-wagging, we’ll never get a seat.’
‘How about me and you going in now, Lizzie? We could sit by ourselves. We needn’t wait for them. We needn’t sit near ’em, come to that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she answered, in two minds. ‘I shouldn’t leave my mother.’
‘Aunt Eve’ll be all right. My folks’ll keep her company. Hang on, I’ll tell ’em we’m going in without ’em.’
Lizzie smiled and said all right, then turned away self-consciously. It all seemed to be happening tonight. The two men she was most interested in were as good as dangling on her string. The realisation excited her. She fancied Stanley more each time she saw him, and it was just as easy to turn to him as to Jesse. Probably easier; at least he was attainable without controversy. A bird in the hand and all that.
As Lizzie moved away she turned to make sure that Jesse Clancey had noticed. He had, but concealed the fact, striking a casual pose and laughing extra-heartily at something Sylvia had said. Lizzie smiled contentedly. Two men patently interested in her; two gorgeous, dashing men. If only she could have both. She had the capacity to handle both until she finally decided which one to marry.
But who to choose? It was so confusing.
Now, with Stanley’s hand in the small of her back guiding her into church, she felt another flush of excitement at the thought of sitting with one admirer while the other yearned jealously for her. She allowed Stanley to lead her into the back pew, the prime location for courting couples. They would have it all to themselves, for it wasn’t a full length pew; one of the massive columns supporting the vaulted roof occupied much of it.
Stanley gallantly opened her Hymns Ancient and Modern and found the first hymn for her. ‘I’ve wanted just the two of us to sit together for ages.’ His smile was devastating. ‘I’ve never been able to pluck up the courage before to ask you. I thought you might laugh at me … being second cousins and all that.’
Lizzie hunched her shoulders with delight, and an exhilarating warmth surged through her at the prospect of a romance so unexpected. ‘Being second cousins doesn’t matter, Stanley. I’m glad you did.’
‘Even first cousins can marry, you know, Lizzie.’
His very words made her hot. Funny how romance could be so spontaneous.
Their folks walked down the centre aisle. Tom Dando, back from The Freebodies, acknowledged Lizzie and Stanley with a nod, and courteously allowed Eve to enter the pew before him. When the women had settled their long skirts and taken off their gloves, and the men had placed their best hats under the pew, they all knelt down and prayed. Lizzie smiled at Stanley over the success of their spontaneous assignation, and with increasing regularity as the service progressed. During the sermons – for there were two; the first, a valediction from the exiting Mr Crowshaw; the second, a greeting from the new vicar – Stanley shuffled close and shamelessly took her hand. Lizzie felt her heart start pounding at the contact, and she blushed once more, in half a mind to withdraw. It was, after all, a liberty and, besides, it could surely never be proper to hold hands in church. But she brazenly allowed her hand to remain in Stanley’s, and a dangerous glow of pleasure enveloped her.
After the service, everyone filed out through the main door. While Mr Crowshaw thanked all for their support in the past, the Reverend Mr John Mainwaring and his wife met his parishioners for the first time, shaking their hands warmly. Many lingered in the churchyard afterwards, chatting, saying what a nice man the new vicar seemed. Since Ezme Clancey was the relief organist, she, Jack and Jesse were expected at a welcoming party at the vicarage, along with other church dignitaries, as were Beccy and Albert Crump. Albert had taken the pledge years ago and was secretary of the Band of Hope in the St. John’s Church of England Temperance Society. Despite Albert, however, Tom Dando claimed defiantly that he and his family were going for a drink or two at The Shoulder of Mutton.
‘Why not come with us, Eve, and bring young Lizzie?’ Sarah suggested. ‘It’ll be a bit o’ company.’
Eve automatically cupped her hand to her good ear.
‘I daresay Eve’s got other things to do, Sarah,’ Tom chided. ‘Leave her be.’
Eve glanced at Tom. She had not caught his words, but his expression alone forbade her accepting. It was unlike him.
‘No, we’ll go home, Sarah. Our Joe and May’ll be expecting their suppers.’
‘Let ’em get their own suppers,’ Sarah scoffed.
‘And I’ve gotta be up early to light the fire under the wash boiler … Anyway, while I’m here I want to tidy up Isaac’s grave.’
Albert and Beccy bid them goodnight and joined the other group that included Ezme and Jack Clancey, ready to leave to attend the welcoming party at the vicarage.
Lizzie and Stanley deliberately lingered by the lych gate meanwhile, teasing each other and laughing in their new-found understanding that had transmuted them into another kind of relationship; more adult; more thrilling; where emotions could suddenly run amok; where your heart thumped ever so often, and for a long time.
‘Shall you come to our house with your mother and father on Wednesday night?’ Lizzie asked him, her eyes alight.
‘I don’t know,’ he teased. ‘Think I should?’
‘’Course. Why not?’ Her enthusiasm was fuelled by the witnessing of Jesse’s apparent shift of interest twenty or so yards away. He was talking intently to Sylvia again, and Sylvia was laughing coyly. ‘We could go for a walk. We could go for a walk over Oakham fields. To the Dingle.’
As they drifted out into the street through the lych gate Stanley foresaw the possibilities …
They made their way over to the rest of the group standing on the pavement outside. Lizzie felt quite breathless after her encounter. Eve was saying her goodbyes to Tom and Sarah, when Sylvia came flouncing towards them. As she approached in the reddening light she tried to act normally, but there was no hiding the self-satisfied look on her flushed face. She smiled self-consciously and, despite Stanley, Lizzie felt acutely aggrieved that one of her admirers might have defected to her pretty cousin.
*
‘You’d best go and fetch some fresh water from the butt for these flowers, our Lizzie,’ Eve said, and poured what remained of the stale water out of the enamelled grave vase onto the ground. ‘They could do with a drink, it strikes me.’
She handed Lizzie the vase and watched her step back towards the church up the steep slope, picking her way between the other gravestones in the lengthening shadows, lifting the hem of her skirt to avoid getting it dirty. A blackbird swooped down and perched on the arm of a stone cross surmounting another grave, and began its persistent song.
Eve contemplated Isaac. His grave lay on the north side of St. John’s church. Every time Eve visited it she had vivid recollections of the funeral more than four years ago that sometimes stayed with her for days afterwards. On the day of the funeral the wind had freshened, blowing in rain from the west, rustling the tops of the hawthorn trees and the bright bunches of daffodils that had been lovingly arranged on surrounding graves. Family and friends had stood around the hole in the lee of the church, each thinking their own thoughts, she reckoned, each recalling some moment of pleasure or pain Isaac had brought.
She’d tried hard to shed tears that day, for she felt she ought; but no tears would come. God knew she’d spilled enough already over the others. Nearly thirty years ago her second son had died of peritonitis at only five years old. Helplessness and grief had sickened her then. Why her child? The anger and frustration she’d felt was overwhelming, as was the seeming futility of loving and caring for a life that was tenuous and so easily snuffed out. Fifteen years ago her eldest son died at the age of twenty-one in a preventable pit accident at the Bunns Lane Colliery; another cherished life wasted. Two years later, her eldest daughter, unmarried, died in childbirth, and refused to name the man who devised her ruination. Another son died of typhoid in a field hospital in South Africa barely six years ago, his tragic reward for volunteering to aid queen and country in the Boer War. Had he died in battle, she could have accepted it more readily. And then there was the daughter she carried full term but was still-born.
Eve resented more than anything this useless waste of life; those sudden, unexpected ends that had made a nonsense of all her striving. Little wonder she had not been able to weep for Isaac.
Eve recalled that as the funeral service drew to a close she at last felt a tear roll down her cheek. But it was not a tear for Isaac; it was for herself. It was for all the doubts, the misgivings, the love she’d been prepared to give him which so often had been spurned. Yet in more recent years, since the birth of Lizzie, he had mellowed. He became more attentive, more appreciative of her efforts; life with him became easier and more agreeable, as if he was finally repenting of his waywardness. She was glad of the change in him, and had embraced it with all her heart.
Now she looked across the valley towards the castle on the next hill, as she had done that grey, gusting March day in 1902. A billowing cloud of white steam, spouting from a locomotive as it emerged from the Blowers Green tunnel in the middle distance, was instantly dispersed in the wind. So, too, was life itself dependent on the unpredictable consequences of other peoples’ whims, Eve pondered; and on events that do whatever they like with us.
Lizzie returned with the vase filled with fresh water. ‘Is it true that cousins can marry, Mother?’
Eve put her hand to her ear. ‘What say, our Lizzie?’
‘I said, is it true that cousins can marry? I mean, for instance, Stanley and me might start courting by the looks of it. Could we marry? He says we could.’
‘Our Stanley?’ Eve’s expression was one of concern. ‘Stanley Dando?’
Lizzie nodded.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to marry Stanley, our Lizzie. I definitely wouldn’t want you to marry him. You can do much better for yourself than Stanley.’
Lizzie was disappointed at her mother’s response, so decided it best to say nothing more. At least not yet. She picked up a flower and broke an inch off the bottom of its stem before stooping to replace it in the vase. She did another. Then another. Thinking about Stanley and what might come of a romantic interlude with him, it was some time before she stood up and spoke again to her mother.
She said, ‘Why did we come here to Father’s grave so soon? It was only Friday after tea we came last time and put some flowers on.’
‘I didn’t fancy going to The Shoulder of Mutton with your Uncle Tom and Aunt Sarah.’
‘Oh.’ Lizzie pondered the lost opportunity with bitter regret. ‘I’d have liked to have gone,’ she pouted. ‘I’d have loved to have gone.’
Eve did not hear, but she saw the disappointment in Lizzie’s eyes. Silently, between them, they rearranged the carnations and Lizzie picked up the ends of the stems she’d broken off, then stood up again. She read to herself the inscription on her father’s headstone; an inscription she knew by heart.
‘In loving remembrance of Isaac Bishop who died tragically and unexpectedly 15th March 1902, aged 59 years.They have sown the wind. Thy Will be done.’
Chapter 2 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
Sunday’s fine weather continued into Monday. Lizzie Bishop walked to work without her coat, her head swimming with dreams and fantasies. The brief, romantic adventure last evening with Stanley Dando was devouring her. It had been so unexpected, but she had relished every minute. In a flash, her emotions had been relentlessly stirred like leaves in a gale, and it was heart-stopping. Now she could hardly wait to see him again, especially after they’d been so abruptly parted when the families went their separate ways. If only she could summon the patience to wait till Wednesday, when they would walk together across the fields by the Oakham farms to the Dingle, where it would be quiet and secluded. She hoped more than anything that he would have the courage to kiss her.
Stanley had set something in train that excited her beyond all expectations. Now she was determined that nothing could stop them or divert them. Strange, she thought, how she’d known Stanley all her life; but not until recently had she thought of him as anything other than family. His dark curls, his even teeth, and his lovely, lovely lips would surely break the hearts of a good many girls. It was up to her to make sure no one else had a chance. Stanley was drawn to her, too, just as surely as a buck is drawn to a doe; that much was obvious. And her eager appetite had been whetted enough.
The clatter and whine of an electric tram travelling through the Market Place roused Lizzie from her daydreams. Stall-holders were loading their trestles beneath the red and white awnings with everything from fruit, vegetables and rolls of velvet, to brass fenders, lamp oil and crockery. Horses clip-clopped over the cobblestones, drawing rumbling carts, and a motor car spluttered as it passed circumspectly in the direction of St. Thomas’ tall spire at the top of the town. A man riding to work on a bicycle took pains to avoid getting his narrow wheels caught in the tramlines. Already, awnings were out over many of the shop fronts and Lizzie could see others being drawn down. A hawker was selling fly papers outside the front door of E. C. Theedham’s, Ironmongers and Cutlers, where she worked, and bid her good morning.
She saw May Bradley walking towards her from the opposite direction, and waited. They entered the shop together and headed for the passageway at the rear where they generally hung their coats. Today, they had only their baskets to deposit before entering the small back-room to titivate their hair. May looked at herself in the mirror and rearranged a wayward wisp. Despite their age difference the girls got on well. They first met when Lizzie started this job, some couple of years ago, and soon they began to meet socially.
May was down-to-earth, with a ready smile, and a wit that was at first beyond Lizzie. She was an attractive girl with a slender waist and an ample bosom, and she had an abundance of dark, wavy hair that framed a pleasant but hardly striking face. When Lizzie invited May home to tea one Sunday afternoon to meet her mother, it was Joe Bishop, her brother, then twenty-two and looking more like his late father every day, who monopolised the conversation, amusing May with his humorous quips. Later, when it was time for May to leave, Joe offered to escort her home, since it was dark. He insisted there was no need for Lizzie to trouble herself accompanying her friend. May accepted bashfully, thanked Eve for her hospitality, and that was the beginning of their courtship. Eve was hopeful that Joe had found himself a nice, homely girl, at last.
May turned away from the mirror to speak to Lizzie. ‘When you was at church last night with your mother, me and Joe went for a drink in The Junction, and while we was in there, we saw Arthur Dowty, your next door neighbour. He says as how him and Bella am flittin’. He says it’s ’cause of Jack Hardwick’s pigs. Anyroad, when we got back I said to Joe as we ought to think about rentin’ that house ourselves. If we could have it, we’d get married. That way, we’d still be close to your mother.’
Lizzie fastened the ties of her pinafore behind her. ‘Wouldn’t the pigs bother you as well?’
‘Oh, I’m used to pigs. Me father always kept pigs. He’s a pig himself. Anyroad, if the pigs was there afore we, we couldn’t rightly complain.’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I suppose not. But how soon are Bella and Arthur flitting?’
‘As soon as they find somethin’ else, they said.’ May continued to fiddle with her hair in the mirror. ‘There’s plenty houses to rent. It shouldn’t be long.’
Lizzie’s smiling eyes lit up her face. ‘Another wedding to look forward to. Oh, I’m that happy for you, May. I’m sure that our Joe’ll make you a lovely husband, though I say it myself.’
‘Yes, and if you get him a big enough piece of wood, I daresay he’ll make you one, Lizzie.’ May tried to keep a straight face.
‘Oh, I think I’m a bit too young yet, May,’ Lizzie replied innocently, not having caught the humour in May’s comment. Then she said coyly, ‘I think me and Stanley Dando might start courting, though.’
‘Oh, young Stanley, eh? What’s brought that on?’
Lizzie sat down and explained excitedly how Stanley had all but abducted her to the back pew in church, even held her hand, and told her that cousins could marry. But she failed to say that her mother seemed not to approve.
‘Well, he seems a pleasant enough lad. He’s nice lookin’, an’ all, there’s no two ways. But remember you’m only sixteen, Lizzie. It’s no good courtin’ serious at sixteen.’
‘I know that. But when I’m eighteen, I’ll be old enough to get wed. That’s less than two years off. A good many girls get wed at eighteen.’
‘Not if they’ve got any sense they don’t. It’s generally ’cause they’ve got to if they’m that young. You’d break your mother’s heart if that happened, you know. Just remember she’s been through all that before with your sister Maude. And look what happened to her.’
‘Oh, May, I wouldn’t do anything like that. What sort of girl d’you think I am?’
‘Like any other, I daresay, so liable to get carried away.’
When Lizzie left school at twelve years old she had found a job at the Dudley Bucket and Fender Co-operative and made a friend of another girl, roughly the same age, called Daisy Foster. They soon bettered themselves at another firm, operating small guillotines, cutting coils of brass into lengths ready to be pressed into parts for paraffin lamps. They stayed for two years, not just learning the job, but learning about life, listening to the other women gossiping over the hollow rattle and thumps of hand presses, and the fatty smell of tallow. Most of the girls they worked with were older, and Lizzie was amazed at the unbelievable things some of them used to tell her about their men, the amazing antics they performed with them and, most surprisingly, how often. Lizzie didn’t know such things were possible, but it all sounded intriguing. Those girls told her things she would never have known about had she stayed at home. By autumn, however, the two girls had tired of the oil lamp factory, and found jobs at Chambers Saddlery in Hall Street. Lizzie, however, did not take to working with leather and its dark, sickly odour, whereas Daisy did. Thus they split up when Lizzie left to seek other employment.
‘I know a lot of girls do do it, May … you know? … before they get wed I mean … But I wouldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’d be too afeared of getting caught.’
‘Yes, well … It’s somethin’ you need to bear in mind, Lizzie.’
‘Do you and our Joe do it, May?’
May registered no outward change in her expression, continuing to preen herself. ‘That’s between Joe and me.’
‘Well, have you ever done it? With anybody, I mean?’
‘Lizzie! Honestly!’
‘It isn’t that I’m being nosy,’ Lizzie persisted, trying to justify her questioning, ‘but I can talk to you about things. I’ve got nobody else to talk to, and I want to know about things like that. I want to know what it’s like, and everything. I need to talk to somebody about it.’
May turned round and grabbed her pinafore from the hook on the back of the door. ‘You’ll learn soon enough when you do get wed, Lizzie, and not before if you want my advice. There’s no rush … Tell me about Stanley, eh?’
Lizzie smiled again, modestly. ‘I keep thinking about his lips, May … and how much I want him to kiss me. I only have to think about him and my legs go all wobbly. D’you think I’m falling in love?’
May shrugged. ‘So you’m not interested in Jesse Clancey any more?’
‘Well I would be if he’d asked me out. But he seems more interested in our Sylvia.’
*
Kates Hill lay about a mile south east of Dudley town centre, overlooked only by the old Norman castle on the next high ridge. It was a warren of narrow cobbled and muddy streets, each like a gorge, lined with rows of red brick terraced houses and little shops. Some of the streets were steep, others only gently inclined. Not one could you claim was flat, and few failed to host at least one public house. The houses, many of them back-to-back, were built during the early part of the nineteenth century to house the influx of workers who came seeking jobs in the burgeoning foundries, forges, coal mines and ironworks. There were many other factories tucked away, small concerns, some squeezed between houses, some crammed at the back of them, or down alley-ways that the ever-present wind funnelled heedlessly through. Most were concerned with the shaping of metal. Furnaces still glowed in many streets after dark as workers toiled on, striving to earn a few pence extra to bring some comfort to their spartan lives. Three brass foundries and a forge all stood within shouting distance of each other, so there was always the sound of hard work within earshot; the ringing of metal; the steady, reassuring gasps of Boulton and Watt steam engines built practically next door in Handsworth. Everywhere a great confusion of chimney stacks volleyed columns of grey smoke up into the obliging sky.
The Bishops’ house was roughly in the middle of an unbroken terrace that ran the whole length of Cromwell Street on one side. It was not a regular terrace, though. Some houses, those inhabited by better off families, stood further back from the horse road than others, with iron railings at the front and long flights of stone steps up to the painted gates of their entries. The Bishops’, however, was none such; their front doorstep directly met the footpath with its criss-crossed, blue, paving bricks.
There were three bedrooms. Two were on the front, one of which was a box-room where Lizzie slept. At one time she and her sister Lucy used to share it, till Lucy found a job at the Station Hotel which meant her living-in. Her three brothers used to share the bed in the other little front bedroom, to raucous guffaws and irreverent cursing, especially at bed time in winter if they were arguing over who should warm his feet first on the wrapped fire brick. She could hear just about everything through the thin wall of wooden laths that separated her from them. But, nowadays, all was quiet. Ted and Grenville had wed and moved out, which meant that Joe had the bed to himself.
When she parted her curtains in a morning, Lizzie could see St. John’s church in the middle distance through the gap between The Sailor’s Return public house and the brass foundry opposite. Beyond the church was the castle keep, looming grey over the trees at the top of its steep, wooded hill.
To Lizzie, the castle seemed no higher than Cromwell Street. Indeed, tradition had it that Oliver Cromwell himself had supervised the castle’s destruction from that very spot, because of its elevation; hence the street’s name. Certainly, Cromwell’s forces besieged it from these heights.
The back bedroom, overlooking the yard, was where Eve slept in her big, brass bed. The scrubbed, wooden stairs rose directly from the scullery into that bedroom, so access to the others was through it. When Isaac, their father, was alive they all had to be home and in bed before it was time for him to retire. If any of them came home after he went to bed, they were condemned to sleep all night on a chair in the scullery, or face the verbal equivalent of a firing squad for disturbing him.
Downstairs, the scullery seemed all cupboards and doors, from floor to ceiling, of brown varnished wood; a door to the stairs with a single stair jutting out, and next to it the cellar door. There was the middle door as well, to the front room that seemed only ever to be used for weddings, for funerals, or at Christmas time. A chenille fringe adorned the edge of the mantel shelf, and Eve laid a matching cloth on the table every Sunday, without fail.
Isaac had always ruled the roost. Because he was the main breadwinner, his needs and desires came first, though none of the family ever wanted for anything. His job had always paid a steady wage, and with other sons working many neighbours envied their standard of living. Meals were regular and substantial, and they always had good clothes and stout shoes to wear, even if they were shared from time to time.
It was not until some time after her father’s funeral that Lizzie began to miss him and his death started to have any real meaning. The evenings at home in their small house were quiet as she and her mother sat companionably in front of the coal fire that burned agreeably. Joe, her youngest brother, was nineteen then and, whilst he had a steady job in a forge and handed over his money every Friday night, it was hard work, and to relax he was out drinking with his friends most evenings. Lizzie missed her father’s wit. She missed his presence; the little things, like his cursing if anyone accidentally nudged him while he was shaving with his cut-throat razor in front of the fire, and his mug on the mantelpiece. She missed the aroma of Turner’s Brass Foundry that used to linger on him when he came in from work. She missed him polishing her boots at night. She missed all sorts of things.
After the funeral she would daydream, reading by candle light in the prevailing silence but, when she glanced at her mother sitting quietly in her high-backed chair, she would sometimes see the firelight reflected in tears rolling down her cheeks. She would watch Eve lift her spectacles without a murmur and wipe her eyes with a dainty handkerchief, then return to her newspaper, which she always scoured from front to back, whispering every word she read. Lizzie began to understand even then that those tears were not just for her father; they were for all the other loved ones lost, perhaps for opportunities lost. Sometimes, she was moved to weep herself, but she would stifle the tears and put on a brave smile, then go over to her mother and give her a hug.
Lizzie had been confused by her mother’s reaction, though. She had grieved more at the loss of Major, the son who died of enteric fever in a field hospital in Bloemfontein during the Boer War.
*
On the Wednesday, May came to tea, as was lately her custom. She arrived with Lizzie during the afternoon, since every Wednesday they were both given a half day off. May liked to spend time with Eve, black-leading the fire grate for her before lighting the fire, and sitting out on the yard in the sunshine on chairs taken from the scullery, peeling potatoes. When Joe returned from his chainmaking, Eve served up liver faggots and grey peas with boiled potatoes. When they had finished eating and everything had been cleared away, they informed Eve that the Dowtys’ house might become vacant over the next week or two.
‘If the landlord agrees to rent us the house next door, we’ll do it up and get married. What d’you say to that, Mother?’
Eve smiled, a self-satisfied smile. ‘It’s about time, our Joe. And you won’t find e’er a nicer wench, either.’
He looked proudly at May. ‘So we’ve got your blessing?’
‘Yes, you’ve got me blessing. Be sure to look after her.’
Lizzie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after eight. If the Dandos were coming they should arrive at any minute.
‘Well, one thing about it – we shan’t be a million miles away so, if I don’t look after her, you can always come round and give me a good hiding.’
Eve caught every word. ‘And you can be sure as I would. There’s ne’er a chap living that’s too big for a good hiding off his mother, specially if he knows he deserves it. Anyroad, I’ll have a word with the landlord for you.’
‘You’ll be needing some furniture,’ Lizzie suggested.
‘Yes, and I’ve been thinkin’,’ May said, ‘our Travis has got a table and chairs he wants to get shut of. It’ll be all right to start off with.’
‘You’ll get a few things as wedding presents,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll buy you something nice if you tell me what you want.’
Joe got up from his chair to poke the fire. ‘Don’t go spending your money on us, our Lizzie. You’ll need all you can get for yourselves, you and mother. We can fend for ourselves. We’ll pick up a bargain or two at any decent pawnshop.’
‘Pawn shop? I don’t want other folks’s left-offs, Joe. I’d rather have new.’
‘We’ll buy some new things, May. We’ll buy a new bed. But as regards the rest, we’ll have to see how we’m fixed for the old spondulicks.’ He peered into the coal scuttle as an afterthought. ‘Bugger me, this blasted thing’s empty again. Every time I look it’s soddin’ empty. Our Lizzie, fetch some coal up, my wench, and I’ll give yer a silver threepenny bit.’
‘Go yourself and keep your silver threepenny bit.’ There was sisterly contempt in her voice. ‘Why should I get all mucked up? Aunt Sarah and Uncle Tom will be here in a minute.’
May raised an eyebrow. ‘Not to mention Stanley.’
Lizzie glanced guiltily at her mother, but Eve had heard nothing. It was then that they heard footsteps in the entry, and Lizzie’s heart started to pound.
‘Aye up. Sounds like they’m here now,’ Joe said, disappearing into the cellar with the coal bucket.
The back door opened and in walked Tom and Sarah. Tom sat himself in the armchair and Sarah sat on its arm, her back towards her husband while they talked. Joe returned from the cellar, heaving the bucket of coal. He set it down on the hearth and made up the fire while Lizzie waited for Stanley to come in. But there were no more footsteps in the entry. No more opening of the back door. The flutter of excitement under her rib cage became an ache. Usually, either Stanley or Sylvia accompanied their mother and father. Tonight, there was neither. Lizzie felt a fervent desire to cry out. Where was Stanley? Why hadn’t he come? But conversation about May’s and Joe’s plans was already in full spate, so she let it be.
‘Well, I reckon as we should go and have a drink on it,’ Tom suggested. ‘Let’s pop up The Junction and celebrate.’
‘That’s all you think about,’ Sarah complained. ‘Beer, beer, beer. I wonder as you don’t drown in it.’
‘No, that’s a bostin’ idea, Tom,’ Joe agreed. ‘Gi’ me a minute to wash me hands. Come on, Mother. Get your lid on. We’m off for a drink to celebrate.’
So everybody, except Lizzie, began sprucing themselves up and smoothing the creases from their clothes. When they were about to leave, Tom asked her why she wasn’t joining them.
‘I’m not old enough to sit drinking in public houses.’ She felt desperately sorry for herself.
‘You can sit in the children’s room, my darlin’. I’ll bring you some pop.’
‘The children’s room? No thanks, Uncle Tom.’
‘But it’s a celebration.’
Lizzie preferred to stay at home. Stanley was sure to arrive sooner or later. After all, he’d promised. She would wait, and be alone with him when he did arrive.
*
But Stanley broke his promise. He did not come to see her that evening; nor the following Sunday evening at church; nor on the Wednesday after that when his parents came visiting again. Stanley wasn’t even mentioned. His continued absence stung Lizzie. If he cared anything at all he would surely have appeared by this time and apologised for not being able to see her before. His feelings on that first Sunday evening of July were too obvious for her to be mistaken. And yet she must have been mistaken. She must have misinterpreted his signals. Something did not add up. Something was wrong, and she couldn’t fathom it out. Had he been merely stringing her along? Was he practising on the nearest girl to see how she might respond to his advances? Perhaps he was. But she could have sworn …
Lizzie decided that next Wednesday when the Dandos came round she would be out. She would be out returning the compliment, visiting their house in the hope that Stanley would be at home. She had to see him; this not knowing was driving her mad. The least she deserved was an explanation. Besides, she knew Stanley well enough to be able to visit him uninvited.
Or did she? This intimacy, which had befallen them so easily, had changed everything. Somehow, it complicated their accessibility to each other, which they could have freely enjoyed before. Lizzie was no longer sure of her ground. But she just had to know whether he loved her.
By the time Wednesday came round again, the weather was uncomfortably hot and humid. The whole country was sweltering in the grip of an intense heat-wave. Lizzie wore a cotton shirt and light cotton skirt. Her long underskirt seemed to stick to her moist, bare legs in the heat, and she wished the day would come when cooler, shorter skirts might be considered seemly. In this sort of weather they would certainly be more comfortable. She stood talking to Gert Hudson and Ida Wassall in Cromwell Street, her hair elegantly done, while she discreetly awaited the arrival of Tom and Sarah. When she saw them she waved but, as she’d anticipated, neither Stanley nor Sylvia accompanied them. So she took her leave of Gert and Ida, and made her way to the Dando’s house.
Certain that this contrived meeting would sort things out and thus settle her mind, Lizzie strode purposefully on. As she turned into Pitfield Street, where Phyllis Fat lived, half a dozen small children were playing in the gutter, throwing stones at a passing cat. One of them was naked, the rest in rags, their faces grubby, their hair matted with filth. The street was long and narrow, with a long line of crumbling back-to-back terraced houses on each side. Chimneys leaned precariously, slates were missing from the roofs, and paint peeled from faded front doors and window frames. A few people, mostly elderly, sat on the steps of their open front doors in open-mouthed, toothless silence. In some houses the floor was dirt – no quarries, no floorboards, no linoleum. Coal was heaped under the table in those houses that had a table. Often, Eve had warned Lizzie not to venture down Pitfield Street alone, but no ill had ever befallen her. It cheered her to see the occasional house with sparkling windows bedecked with pretty curtains and a bunch of fresh flowers, and a front step conscientiously whitened at those houses where respectability defied poverty.
As she left it all behind her and walked on to Dixons Green Road, the contrast was marked. Dixons Green was where the well-to-do merchants of the town had established substantial homes. And, although there was a malthouse opposite The Shoulder of Mutton, it did not intrude.
Lizzie walked on, past The Bush Inn, an old public house with a wooden porch on the front that reminded her of a pigeon loft. Men wearing collarless shirts and braces were leaning against the wall and railings outside, drinking beer, laughing, swearing, enjoying the warm weather, and several of them whistled and hooted after her. From here you could look west and, on a clear day, see the green Clent Hills, but the humidity and stillness of the last few days meant that the atmosphere was thick and hazy now. You could see no further than the old mine workings and pit mounds of Mudhall Colliery, grey and foreboding against the reddening sky; and the old Buffery Clay Pit at the bottom of the hill. And this scarred and barren landscape, relieved only by the tower of St. Peter’s church, a hazy silhouette in distant Netherton, was overlooked by the Dandos.
As she turned into Grainger Street, Lizzie’s pulse was racing. She had arrived. The Dando’s home was fairly new, built only in 1903. The windows gleamed and an aspidistra sat majestically in a shining, brass pot in the centre of the front room window. They had their own gate at the top of the entry and a private back yard, too, with a garden and flowers that Sarah tended with loving care. Nervously, Lizzie tip-toed through the entry, quietly opened the gate on the right, and walked onto the foreyard. She tapped tentatively on the back door, feeling weak at the knees, wishing now she hadn’t come and hoping that even though she had, Stanley would not after all be at home. After all, there was still Jesse Clancey. She could always turn her attentions to Jesse.
She waited, and was just about to turn tail and run, when the door opened a fraction. Sylvia’s flushed face appeared, bearing a sheen of perspiration.
‘Lizzie!’ She stepped outside and Lizzie could see that her hair was untypically ruffled. She held her stomach in to tuck her blouse into her skirt. ‘What brings you here? Mother and Father have gone up to your house. Is there anything wrong, Lizzie? D’you want to come in?’
‘No, no, Sylvia.’ She was retreating backwards slowly down the entry. ‘I … I just thought I might see Stanley, that’s all … If he’s not in, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Our Stanley went out, Lizzie. I expect he’s out with his mates for a last drink. Can I give him a message?’
Still retreating, Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, it’s all right, Sylvia …’
At that moment, a man appeared at Sylvia’s side, and peered intently into the entry. Lizzie gasped. It was Jesse Clancey. His blonde hair was tousled also, his shirt crumpled. As soon as he could make out Lizzie in the dimness of the entry, he ran his fingers through his hair to try and smarten it up.
‘Oh, it’s Lizzie Bishop,’ he said. ‘How are you, Lizzie?’
‘I’m all right, Jesse, thank you.’ She was bitterly disappointed to see him there. She noticed he had no shoes on.
‘Good. Fancy a glass of beer with us?’
‘No, Jesse … Thank you. I’d best be getting back.’
She made the conscious decision then to turn and walk away with as much dignity as she could muster. The sound of her own footsteps seemed deafening as they echoed through the entry. Now her frustration was complete. Not only had she failed to see Stanley, and broadcast to his sister and to Jesse Clancey that she was actively seeking him, but she had also discovered that Jesse was intimately involved with Sylvia. What could he possibly see in her? He couldn’t possibly be in love with her.
Lizzie felt foolish. It was evident now to even a blind man that Stanley was not interested in her. She had made a big mistake by allowing herself to be enticed by his insincere show of interest in the first place. And what did Sylvia mean by saying that Stanley was out having a last drink?
What if she’d been just a bit more responsive to Jesse that Sunday evening? What if she’d plucked up the courage to actually strike up a conversation with him instead of smiling coquettishly and making stupid cow eyes at him? Would he have asked her out, even though she was so much younger? Or would he still have arranged to see Sylvia? But he had not asked her, so it hardly mattered. In any case he could never really be a serious contender since his father was indirectly responsible for her own father’s death. She could never justify it. And their mothers, with their insane rivalry, would never allow it anyway. Nobody would condone it. There were just too many impediments.
She climbed Buffery Road’s steep incline, feeling hot, uncomfortable and miserable. She felt like crying when she arrived home, fraught and in despair. Her skin was clammy, sticky with the humidity, and she wanted to lie in a bath-tub full of cool water. She hoped that Sarah and Tom might have taken her mother to The Junction, so she could have some time to herself for a while, to cry, to think, to calm down, to sort out her bewilderment. But, as she opened the back door, she could hear her Uncle Tom’s booming voice. She groaned inwardly, but forced a smile.
‘Oh, I’m that hot,’ she declared flatly, trying to hide the turmoil inside her. ‘I’d give anything to stand in the cut for half an hour.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ Eve asked. ‘We was wondering what had happened to you?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I called to see Stanley.’ It was a reckless admission, but she was too hot and too miserable to care. ‘He wasn’t in, though.’ She resisted the urge to mention that Sylvia and Jesse Clancey were having an intimate evening of it.
‘You won’t be seeing much of our Stanley in future, Lizzie,’ Tom said. ‘He’s took the king’s shilling and signed up. I was just telling your mother as he’s off to start his training tomorrow. He’s got to be up at the crack of dawn to catch the train. I reckon as he’ll be sent to the Cape, you know.’
The Cape? South Africa? But Stanley had mentioned nothing about joining the army.
‘Or India,’ Sarah suggested with a hint of discontent.
‘Or India. Either road, it’s one way of seein’ the world. It’ll mek a man of him. We’ll miss him, though.’
So that was what Sylvia meant when she said he’d gone out for a last drink. ‘What made him decide to do that, Uncle Tom? Was it sudden?’
Tom glanced at Eve. Sarah in turn looked at him, awaiting his answer.
‘Well, you know what young chaps am like, these days.’
Chapter 3 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
May Bradley and Joseph Asa Bishop were married on New Year’s Day, 1907. Only a few guests – close family of the bride and groom, the Dandos, and Beccy and Albert Crump from next door – were invited to their new home for some liquid refreshment afterwards. Albert uttered not one word about the evils of drink, in deference to May’s family, whom he did not know and had no wish to alienate, while he supped cups of tea. But, while he anxiously listened to his wife singing raucously after drinking several glasses of port, he believed it might behove him to register his avowed disapproval. So he gave her a glance conveying notice of the divine retribution about to be visited on her if she did not shut up and regain her dignity. At about midnight the newly-weds were left to enjoy their first night together, after Grenville and Ted had made an apple-pie bed for them, with biscuit crumbs liberally folded in for good measure.
So Eve and Lizzie were finally left to themselves in their little house, which had, over the years, been so crowded with family that there was barely room to move. Lizzie soon took advantage of Joe’s departure by moving into the larger of the two front bedrooms. Eve reflected that as each year passed, so the population within had decreased; as each in turn left, or was taken by the good Lord, the quieter it became. No day passed, though, when Joe or May would not call to see them. Because May continued to work, Eve took on the extra task of doing their washing, for which Joe paid his mother handsomely. He was aware that the loss of his wage would hit them hard. Lizzie was the only one now earning any money at number 48, and her wage was barely enough to keep them in starch. His mother, approaching sixty, could hardly be expected to find a job, though many women her age worked. In any case, Joe vowed he would not allow her to. As far as he was concerned she’d done a lifetime’s labour rearing her children and looking after a husband whom Joe, these days, was not sure had been everything that a husband should be.
May, too, was considerate. She would buy an extra couple of chops, or an extra half dozen eggs, especially for Eve and Lizzie. It pleased her to do so, since she felt closer to her mother-in-law than to her own mother. In any case she could afford it. She would pay for a quart of lamp oil from Theedhams whenever Lizzie said they needed any, and send round two plated dinners of a Sunday, to save Eve the trouble and expense of a Sunday joint.
Ted and Grenville usually called to see their mother at a weekend, Grenville on a Saturday when Wolverhampton Wanderers were playing away. Ted’s day was a Sunday when his shop was shut. Between them, they donated what they could to the welfare of their mother and youngest sister.
Even their kindness, however, was insufficient to maintain them in anything like a comfortable existence, and it was especially hard on Eve. Although Isaac had been nothing less than a swine in many respects he always turned his money up. Consequently, they’d always lived well, though he’d never saved; gambling and drink had devoured all his spare cash. Now, things were different. Eve thought she might be entitled to some parish relief, but the indignity of having to ask precluded her from getting it. So she struggled on, managing with what they had, with what was donated, and with what could be bought cheaply.
New clothes were out of the question. Fortunately, Eve could mend and alter the old clothes that remained in the house in abundance, cast-offs from the departed members of the family. Shoes were more of a problem, though; Lizzie wore out shoes quickly, having to walk the mile or so to and from work every day. During the summer Eve took care of every last penny, conscious that come the winter, they would need extra coal to keep warm.
Lizzie realised she was destined to live with her mother for the foreseeable future, even when she eventually wed, and the man she married would have to accept it. Indeed, it would have to be a condition of marriage.
It surprised Lizzie that Tom Dando was so consistently kind to her mother. His Wednesday evening visits with Sarah continued with a regularity that was almost monotonous. Fridays also, on his way home from work, he would hand money to Eve and tell her it was a bit of pension from Turner’s Brass Foundry. Tom’s own family were all grown up and gone, with the exception of Sylvia, so he evidently felt he could afford to help Eve.
Lizzie asked her mother why it was that Tom seemed to favour her so much.
‘Oh, when we was young, your Uncle Tom was sweet on me.’ Her eyes smiled distantly at the recollection of it. ‘In fact, when I married your father it broke his heart.’
‘But they were cousins, Mother.’
‘Well, that was neither here nor there, our Lizzie.’ Eve folded up the newspaper she’d been reading. ‘Me and your Uncle Tom was sweethearts afore ever I met your father – I was a handsome fleshed madam in them days, though I say it meself, and I had one or two nice, young men after me. Tom’s two years older than me and I knew then what a lovely chap he was, even though I was only just eighteen.’
Lizzie leaned towards her mother’s better ear. ‘So how did you meet my father?’
‘At their old Uncle Eli’s funeral. Tom took me to show me off to his family. We’d been courtin’ a long while. It was there as I met your father all done up in his best black suit and best bowler. Oh, our Lizzie, I only clapped eyes on him and I knew as I’d marry him. He was a lot older than me – about twenty-six at the time – but they said as how he was still a bachelor and a right one for the women, an’ all. Well, when we’d gone back to their uncle’s house for the wake, Isaac come a-talking to me and Tom. After a bit, Tom went to get himself another drink, and Isaac told me how lovely I looked and how as he’d love to kiss me. I remember I blushed to me roots, but there was something about him as took me fancy. After that I kept on thinking about him, even when I was with Tom. Anyroad, afore long I met him again, and I was all of a tiswas. Well, he asked me if I’d meet him one night. So I did, unbeknowns to Tom. I enjoyed meself that much I said I’d see him again and, afore I knew what’d hit me, I was in love – well and truly … and I reckoned I could cure him of his womanising. Anyway, when I told Tom what’d been going on he was heartbroken.’
‘So were they friends after that, Uncle Tom and my father? I wouldn’t have been very pleased if a cousin of mine had stolen my man.’
‘Well, they weren’t very friendly when it first happened, our Lizzie, I can tell you, but they still worked together. They had to. Jobs was scarce in them days and they had to put up with one another, ’cause they worked as a team. But, when Tom met Sarah, they patched up their differences. Tom never forgave your father, though, for pinchin’ me off him. Even the day I got married he told me as he’d always love me.’
‘And did you cure my father of his womanising?’
Perhaps Eve did not catch Lizzie’s question, or pretended not to, but it struck Lizzie how convenient deafness could be at times. ‘You know that lovely Coalport China tea set what’s at the top of the cupboard up there? That was Tom’s weddin’ present to me. When I’m dead and gone it’s yours, our Lizzie. But I want you to promise me now as you’ll cherish it.’
‘Course I’ll cherish it, if it means that much to you.’
Eve nodded and remained with her thoughts for a few minutes, till she picked up her newspaper and began reading again. Lizzie smiled to herself. Evidently she was to be told nothing more. But what she’d been told did not surprise her. Often she heard Uncle Tom and her mother laughing about some incident or some person from the old days; she’d seen the glances that flashed between them, conveying some private understanding. Lizzie wondered whether her mother ever felt she’d married the wrong man. If she’d married Uncle Tom instead, she, Lizzie, would not be sitting here now, contemplating it all. Lizzie was curious how her Aunt Sarah viewed all this; since she must know about this relationship of decades ago. It was so long ago that surely it must be a joke now; regarded benignly as some folly of youth. Certainly Tom and Sarah seemed content. They’d reared a family, too.
Uncle Tom must have looked a lot like Stanley when he was young, Lizzie thought. He was dark, too, and tall, and slender as a lath. He must have been very handsome as a young man with his twinkling, blue eyes and his roguish laugh.
Lizzie’s thoughts turned inevitably to Stanley. She’d heard nothing from him since he joined the army, though she knew he’d been back home for a few days when his training finished. She often thought about him, wondering whether it was because of her that he joined? Was it to get away from her? Was it because he’d started something he didn’t feel inclined to finish? She hoped not; she could scarcely countenance the thought of him being hurt in some skirmish of war, when he might otherwise have been at home. She would always feel responsible. Or was it collusion between Uncle Tom and her mother, after she had asked if it were true that cousins could marry? But she and Stanley were young; little more than children; lots of things might have happened to part them, even if they had started courting. There was nothing to say they would ever get married. So why should he have gone away?
Such thoughts plagued Lizzie from time to time. Stanley lingered in her heart, and because she could not have him she wanted him all the more. Boys were interested in her; she could tell that from the way they looked at her, but no one with Stanley’s good looks. Jesse Clancey was beyond her reach anyway because he was courting Sylvia Dando, as Aunt Sarah was always at pains to remind them. Sylvia couldn’t have picked a nicer chap, and Jesse couldn’t have picked a nicer girl, she told them proudly every time she visited. They were a perfect couple. And with Jack Clancey talking about retirement, Jesse would take over the dairy business and eventually inherit a tidy nest-egg.
*
It was in June of 1907 that Jack Hardwick’s standing in the community was highlighted. Jack lived next door to May and Joe, and they not only shared the privy at the top of the yard with the Hardwicks, but also the stink and the squealing of his pigs. Like Jesse Clancey, Jack was an only son, and the Hardwicks identified with the family from the dairy house, aspiring to success, too, in their own small business. Their way of going about it, after many family discussions, had been to set up Jack in their own converted front room as a butcher, a trade he’d learned well. Business had been brisk ever since the venture started and Jack was growing in confidence daily.
Another trader, Percy Collins, a greengrocer, watched Jack’s scheme with envy. He owned a corner shop at the bottom of Hill Street. Percy had a son as well, Alfred, a core-maker at the Coneygree Foundry in Tipton, who had no interest at all in the family business. It galled Percy, therefore, to see Jack Hardwick enthusiastic in his butchery, and his own son apathetic to greengrocery.
Despite the envy, Percy had to admire the Hardwicks’s enterprise and success, especially in view of the number of butchers’ shops already on Kates Hill. He was content to patronise him by encouraging his wife, Nora, to buy their Sunday joint from him every week. However, each time she returned, she felt Jack had overcharged her.
One Sunday dinnertime, Percy returned home with their joint of beef, roasted to perfection as usual at Walter Wilson’s bakery, after the last bread had been baked. But, on the way, Percy had called in The Junction for a pint or two of ale.
‘I’ll just goo and tek the dog a walk afore I have me dinner, Nora,’ Percy suggested.
‘No, leave her be,’ Nora replied curtly, prodding cabbage leaves into a pan of boiling water. ‘Her’s on heat. You’ll have every dog for miles sniffin’ after her and piddlin’ up the front door. Carve the joint instead.’
So Percy took the carving knife, sharpened it and strove manfully to cut the meat. But it was so tough the knife would barely cut through it. He took the knife outside and sharpened it again on the front door step. When he returned and tried once more, he imagined the beer had sapped his strength, so didn’t complain as he hacked half the joint into small bits. The remainder he left intact, having too little patience to continue. Soon Nora served up their Sunday dinners. Again Percy had difficulty cutting through his first slice of beef, and so vigorously did he try that the said slice slid off the plate and ended up in his lap, along with a potato, some cabbage and a goodly dollop of thick, brown gravy.
‘Oh, Perce! For Christ’s sake, what the hell yer doin’?’ Nora scolded. It was another mess for her to clear up. ‘You’m wuss than a babby.’
Percy scraped his errant dinner back onto his plate with his knife and mopped his trousers with a dishcloth, fetched from the scullery. Undaunted, he sat down and attempted to cut the beef again.
‘Look at the state o’ this meat, Nora. I defy anybody to cut it.’
‘It is a bit ’ard, I agree, Father,’ Alf mumbled, chewing determinedly, encountering similar, though less spectacular, difficulty.
‘Hard? I should say it’s bloody hard. The damn cow as this lot come off must’ve been fed on sand and cement.’
‘I noticed yo’ had a bit o’ trouble carvin’ it,’ Nora commented wryly, ‘but I reckoned as it was the drink. The price it was it ought to be as tender as a bit o’ chicken.’
‘How much did he charge you for it?’
‘Two an’ nine.’
‘How much? My God, it was dearer than bloody gold. He ought to be ashamed, that Jack bloody ’Ardwick.’
So the Collins family ate what they could and, afterwards, Percy fell asleep in his chair. He awoke some two hours later, still troubled by the irreconcilable difference between what Nora had paid for their joint and its quality. Then an idea started to take shape and Percy smiled to himself. Yes, he would do it. He would show up that Jack Hardwick for what he was – a robbing charlatan. Tomorrow dinnertime would be the perfect time, just as the workers from the brass foundries were turning out. In the scullery, he found the meat, cool now, hidden under a muslin cloth to keep the flies off, and set about carving two thick slices.
Monday dinnertime seemed a long time coming. But just before the ‘bull’ whistle was due to blow at the brass foundry at the top end of Cromwell Street, he donned his working boots, tied the laces and strutted down the steps of his shop, carrying the remains of the offending joint wrapped in newspaper under his arm. A black and white mongrel, which had been rooting round the allotments opposite, instantly caught a whiff of meat and trotted over to investigate, sniffing eagerly at the footpath.
At that moment, the hooter blew and, in just a few seconds, a throng of people were released from the three brass foundries and sundry other establishments into Cromwell Street. Some headed towards The Junction, some in the other direction towards The Dog and Partridge and The Sailor’s Return.
Another dog, a cross between a Jack Russell and a Scots terrier, picked up the same scent and joined the first animal sniffing at Percy’s feet. Yet another emerged, panting, from Granny Wassall’s entry in Cromwell Street. Soon there was a whole pack of dogs yapping at Percy’s heels, and his own labrador bitch escaped by jumping up onto the ledge of the lower half of the stable door and over the back wall, to join the hunt.
Most of the workers bid Percy good day, and some asked why he was accompanied by so many excited dogs. Percy was happy to tell them, so it was with great anticipation that those walking in his direction lingered at Jack Hardwick’s little butcher’s shop to watch the sport, gathering more dogs as they went, all crazed at the scent of the beef.
As Percy mounted the steps to the shop, the dogs tried to gain entrance with him. He kicked out to fend them off, but they interpreted it as a sort of game and were greatly encouraged to try harder. Jack Hardwick rushed round his counter to shut the door, but two of them got in and were up at the sides of bacon and the sheets of lights hanging from the walls.
Jack hated dogs. Relishing the sudden opportunity to inflict some harm on the first, the Jack Russell cross, he seized it by the scruff of its neck and hurled it outside with a kick between its back legs to help it on its way. Percy tackled a bigger animal that bore a faint resemblance to a sheep dog, but was bitten for his trouble. While this commotion was going on, Jack’s mother, Amy, alerted by the barking, whining and shouting, came in from the brewhouse where she was rinsing out her bloomers, wielding a wooden maiding dolly. She had the presence of mind to grab a couple of bones, which she threw out to the dogs in the street to create a diversion.
By now, a sizeable crowd had gathered outside Jack’s shop, watching with amusement as the dogs fought and snarled over the bones. Jack Hardwick, still unsettled, and fearful that they would invade his shop again, bounced out with his mother’s maiding dolly and began flailing at the dogs, but it had no effect.
‘This is all your bloody fault, Percy Collins,’ Jack yelled angrily. ‘Fancy bringin’ a pack o’ dogs into a butcher’s shop. Yo’ must want your head lookin’.’
Percy laughed. ‘It ai’ me what’s attracted ’em, it’s the mate yo’ sell, Jack.’
‘Well, it’s good mate. It’s the best.’
‘It’s the bloody dearest. Though these dogs mightn’t know the difference.’ The animal that had some sheep dog ancestry decided that squabbling over a couple of bones was a lost cause and headed again for Percy’s boots. ‘See what I mean?’ he said, kicking out at it.
‘I doh know what yo’m on about, Percy Collins, but I wish to God as yo’ and the bleedin’ dogs would sling your ’ooks.’
‘Listen, you. I’m on about the mate yo’ sold my missus.’
‘What about it?’
‘What about it? I should’ve thought it bloody obvious.’ He raised his boot, showing the sole to Jack. ‘That’s it, there, on the sole o’ me shoe. It was that damned ’ard it was good for nothin’ else.’ He handed Jack the parcel he carried under his arm. ‘And if yo’ doh believe me, here’s the rest of it. Yo’ try it, and if yo’ can eat it, I’ll gi’ yer a sack o’ taters for your trouble. But yo’ll need a wairter-cooled jaw.’
‘There’s nothin’ wrong with my meat. It’s the way it’s roasted.’
‘Then you’d best tell Walter Wilson, Jack, ’cause he roasted it in his bread oven, same as he does for a lot of folk.’
Suddenly, there was a loud collective guffaw from the workmen gathered round, but the butcher and the greengrocer, engrossed in their impassioned dispute, ignored it.
‘Fancy askin’ a baker to roast a joint o’ beef. What the ’ell’s he know about roasting beef?’
‘Whether or no, I want me money back,’ Percy countered. ‘Yo’ ought a be ashamed chargin’ what yo’ charged for this rubbish.’
Another cheer went up and hoots of encouragement, inciting Percy to greater things. He was evidently doing well in this argument; better than he’d anticipated.
Then someone called out from the crowd. ‘Is this your dog here, Percy?’
Percy turned. The man who called him pointed to the group of baying and panting animals. The sheep dog derivative had mounted another animal and was thrusting into her wholeheartedly, his eyes glazed with determination, hell-bent on relief of some sort, if not his hunger. Percy’s labrador bitch was on the receiving end of all this canine passion, and it suddenly dawned on Percy that this was why they were all cheering.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ. That’s all I need. Jack, lend me the dolly to part ’em, afore it’s too late.’
‘You must be joking,’ Jack replied vindictively. ‘Mother’s gorra do the washin’ with that.’
‘Fetch us a bucket o’ water, then, so’s I can chuck it over ’em.’
Jack shook his head, walked back into his shop, smiling, and closed the door behind him.
Next morning, workers noticed that the sign over Jack’s shop, which the day before bore the legend ‘J. F. Hardwick, High Class Butcher’, had been whitened out, and altered to: ‘J. F. Hardmeat, Purveyor of Shoe Leather’.
Chapter 4 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
Old customs prevailed. Eve’s abiding routine of looking after a family continued unaltered. Nothing changed, even though there was no longer a house full to worry about. Saturday night remained the start of the week, when she mixed the Sunday fruit cake after tea and put it in the oven at the side of the grate, so there was something to offer any visitor who might drop by. That in its turn meant a roaring fire, which would get the room nice and warm for bath time. They would fill the tin bath with hot water carried from the boiler in the brewhouse and top it up as required. The back door bolted, Lizzie would be first to bathe, but her thick hair seemed to take ages to dry after Eve washed it for her.
On Sunday, it was best clothes, and friends or family often invited round for tea; then church in the evening. Years ago, for convenience, Eve would fry up vegetables left from Sunday dinner for when the children came home from school on a Monday, which was washing day. Nowadays she was satisfied with a cheese sandwich, by herself, and there was no need to hurry because what little there was to launder was usually finished by dinnertime. Eve always used to do her ironing on a Tuesday, but often now she could manage it on Monday afternoons if it had been a good drying day.
She had a day for cleaning the bedrooms and scrubbing the stairs, for polishing the best furniture and the linoleum in the front room, for cleaning the windows and the front door step. On Wednesdays, the fire wasn’t lit till late because that was the day the grate was blackleaded. To her credit, May still called round and did the job for her on her Wednesday afternoon off, assisted by Lizzie of late.
Eve was feeling her years and, though she was by no means old, all this housework was getting harder. The joints in her hands were becoming lumpy; when she walked any distance her legs ached, and she found herself out of breath doing tasks she would have found easy just a year or two ago. Because of a persistent thirst, she was drinking noticeably more water than she used to and visiting the privy umpteen times a day in consequence. Once or twice, too, she found herself wobbly at the knees well before mealtimes. She put it down to hunger, since eating seemed always to alleviate it.
While Eve felt she was withering, she only had to look at Lizzie to see that she was blooming. She said nothing, but regretted that Lizzie should reach this state of optimum physical womanhood when she was in no position to make the most of it, for the finest looks faded over the years. The girl needed good, fashionable clothes to show herself off to best advantage; to enhance her self-esteem; as did every young woman. But financial constraints precluded it. Her other daughters, Maude and Lucy, had blossomed when the family was comparatively well off; when Isaac was earning good money and Ted and Grenville were bringing home a wage.
Yet the lack of money never stopped Lizzie looking her best. Although many of her clothes were old, they were always spotlessly clean and immaculately ironed. Eve made some admirable creations from old garments, and Lizzie took pleasure in wearing them. She only wished that she, too, had a similar talent, rather than none at all.
Eve silently worried about Lizzie. The girl was sensitive and easily hurt, and she wanted so much for her to meet the right man; not necessarily a rich man, but a kind and loving one. If he turned out to be comfortably off as well, then so much the better. But no Jack-the-lad who fancied his chances with other women, like Isaac. A decent, honest, ordinary sort of chap who was prepared to do an honest day’s work would do nicely, so long as he would cherish Lizzie. As yet, though, there was no sign of any young man in her life; but she was young yet. Oh, Lizzie was sweet on Stanley Dando and no two ways, but his joining the army had thwarted that.
Eve could also see that her youngest daughter was not without admirers. She was most aware of it when they walked to church on a Sunday evening in summer. Not only men’s heads would turn but women’s, too, and Eve would feel so proud. There were one or two eligible young men at church every week who went out of their way to speak to Lizzie, but they must surely be tongue-tied or over-awed when it came to asking her out.
Not least of the admirers, Eve could see, was Jesse Clancey. Even though he was courting Sylvia Dando he still had eyes for Lizzie. But Eve did not wish to encourage that. She did not wish to encourage it at all. It would not do for Lizzie to get mixed up with him. It would not do for Lizzie to be upset by Ezme’s evil tongue. Not at any price. Sylvia Dando was fine for Jesse. Perfect, in fact. She hoped they would stay together and get married.
*
It was in September that Lizzie renewed her friendship with Daisy Foster, the girl she used to work with when she first left school. They met again when Lizzie went out with May and Joe one sunny, Sunday afternoon to hear the Cradley Heath Prize Band playing in Buffery Park. Seats had been specially laid out around the bandstand and they were early enough to find three together near the front. At the interval, Lizzie stood up to stretch her legs and smooth the creases out of her best skirt, when, on the opposite side, facing her, she espied Daisy with another girl and two lads, aged about nineteen. She went across to say hello.
‘You look ever so well, Daisy.’
Daisy was slender and nicely dressed in a loose-fitting green dress and a wide, straw hat adorned with flowers. Her ready smile was marred only by two slightly crossed teeth, which somehow seemed more noticeable now, but which didn’t detract from her prettiness; rather they were the imperfection that added to it.
‘And so do you, Lizzie. You look lovely.’
‘It’s been ages.’
‘I know. We should get together and have a rattle. Are you working in Dudley now?’
‘At Theedhams.’
‘Theedhams? Fancy. And I only work in the Market Place. Why don’t you meet me one dinnertime?’
‘How about Wednesday? I have Wednesday afternoons off.’
‘That’s my afternoon off as well. I could meet you at the Midland Café, if you like.’
Lizzie smiled, a broad smile of pleasure at re-establishing contact with her old friend. ‘Yes. About ten past one? I couldn’t get there before then.’
‘I’ll keep us a table.’
Meanwhile, the lads occupied themselves in conversation with the other girl, though Lizzie couldn’t help noticing one of them. He was wickedly handsome, with sparkling blue eyes and almost black hair that was immaculately trimmed. And he kept looking up at her, trying to catch her eye with an interested smile when the other girl wasn’t aware.
On the appointed day, the two girls turned up for their reunion under umbrellas, for the weather had turned. A steady drizzle all morning had been drenching everything. Market stall holders were packing away, loading their carts with unsold merchandise ready for the next day; for there would be few, if any, customers this dreary afternoon.
When Lizzie and Daisy had let down their brollies and shook them they entered the café and took a vacant table in the window. They ordered a pot of tea, with tongue and cucumber sandwiches.
‘It was such a shock to see you on Sunday,’ Lizzie said, beaming, tucking a strand of hair under her hat. ‘You were the last person in the world I expected to meet.’
Daisy shuffled and leaned forward expectantly. ‘I know, but it was a lovely surprise. Did you say you’re working at Theedhams now?’
Lizzie nodded.
‘I was in Theedham’s just last week. It’s a wonder I didn’t see you. It must’ve been your dinner time or somethin’. I work in the Public Benefit Boot shop. I left Chambers’s Saddlery ages ago. Pullin’ on the leather and stitchin’ and that played havoc with me hands, I couldn’t stand it. Then I found this job, and I like it. Besides, I get me shoes cheap.’
‘That’s handy.’
‘Oh, anytime you want some new shoes cheap come and see me, Lizzie.’
‘I’m desperate for some new shoes, Daisy. I’ll have to come and see you … Are you courting now, then?’
‘Oh, nothin’ serious.’ Self-consciously she wiped condensation from the window with one of her gloves.
‘Oh, I bet! Is it one of those chaps you were with on Sunday?’
‘Yes, the fair-haired one.’ Daisy peered through the patch she had cleared at passers-by trying to avoid stepping into puddles on the uneven pavement outside. ‘His name’s Jimmy Powell. I’ve been goin’ with him six months now. But it’s nothin’ serious, honest. He’s nice, but …’
‘Where’s he live?’
‘Tividale. That was his mate, Ben, who was with us. He’s a nice chap, an’ all.’
‘Mmm, I noticed him. He looked ever so nice, Daisy. I could’ve taken to him myself. He kept smiling at me, but I pretended not to notice.’
The two girls laughed easily.
Daisy said, ‘Fern – that’s his sweetheart – she noticed. She was ever so funny with him after you’d gone. I think she was jealous.’
‘Oops! But I did nothing to egg him on.’
‘You didn’t have to. Looking the way you did was enough. I thought you looked smashin’ in that outfit with your hair done up, an’ all.’
Lizzie smiled, acknowledging the compliment. ‘I’ve had that outfit ages. It’s due to be made into dusters.’
A rickety, old waitress brought their tea and sandwiches. They thanked her and continued talking, comparing their lives since last they worked together; laughing over the meetings they had with two lads they used to see after work, and wondering what had become of them. They talked about the other girls they worked with, and chuckled when they recounted the escapades with men they’d bragged about. They wanted to know about each other’s families; about births, deaths, marriages. There was such a lot to catch up on. It was two pots of tea later that the girls emerged from the Midland Café, still laughing.
‘You’ll have to come to tea one Sunday, Daisy. Mother would love to see you.’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘What about a week on Sunday? You could bring your sweetheart, if you wanted to. Mother wouldn’t mind. She wouldn’t mind at all.’
Daisy smiled. ‘All right then.’
*
Eve was indeed pleased to learn that Daisy Foster and her young man were coming to tea. It would be a nice change to entertain somebody different.
‘I wish I could have a new frock,’ Lizzie said. ‘I can never wear that outfit again.’
‘I wish you could, as well,’ Eve replied, having caught every word and understanding Lizzie’s frustration. ‘I’ll see if I can make you something new for then. Perhaps May’s got something as I can alter.’
‘There’s a frock in me wardrobe I never wear, Lizzie,’ May said, stirring her tea as she sat at the scrubbed table. ‘Have it with pleasure if you want it.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Ooh, May, thanks. Can I see it after?’
‘’Course. If you like it, bring it back with you.’
‘I could do with a new coat, as well, Mother,’ she said with a plea in her eyes. ‘I’ve got some money saved. Enough to buy a new coat. Can I?’
Eve agreed. Tomorrow, in her dinnertime, Lizzie would happily scour the town for a new coat. Meanwhile, there was May’s discarded frock to inspect.
It turned out to be less than a year old and quite fashionable. May was a size bigger than Lizzie, especially around the bust, but with a couple of darts in the waist, some remodelling of the bodice and turning the hem up a couple of inches, it would be ideal. Lizzie thanked May and the two girls took it back to show Eve. At once they had to have a fitting, so Lizzie divested herself of her working clothes and put on the new dress. Eve reached up and took her pincushion from the mantelpiece and started putting a few pins in here and there, where she needed to alter it.
‘This is a beautiful frock, May,’ Eve commented. ‘How come you’ve never worn it?’
‘After I’d bought it Joe said he didn’t like it,’ May replied.
‘Our Lizzie, it’ll look a treat on you.’
‘Good. I can hardly wait for next Sunday to wear it.’
*
The dairy house, where the Clanceys lived, was a large detached house with no foregarden, but set well back from the footpath. A cobbled yard lay at the rear, accessed from the street by an entry broad enough to drive a horse and cart through with ease. On one side of the yard was a row of brick-built outbuildings, one of which was a stillroom for making butter, the rest for stabling the horses and garaging the carts. On the other side was the door to the scullery. Behind the brewhouse stood the privy, the ‘miskin’ where they deposited all their rubbish and a hen coop. When Jack Clancey first started up his business he kept cows in the field at the back of the house to provide the milk for his business. A picket fence and gate separated it from the yard. These days, because home-produced milk was unreliable, only the two horses grazed it now, accompanied occasionally by an odd vagrant hen in search of extra food.
In the front room, standing in the square bay window looking out over Cromwell Street, was Jesse Clancey. An hour earlier he’d watched Lizzie Bishop, in all her Sunday finery, walk towards Hill Street with another girl and a young man, no doubt heading for Oakham Road and a stroll through the meadows beyond. He was hoping they would return by the same route so he could catch sight of her again. Every time he saw the girl she looked more and more bewitching. Today she wore a cream dress with pale green trimmings, narrow skirted, with a high neck collar, under a cream three-quarter length coat. She looked so beautiful, her hair swept up on top of her head in the pompadour style and crowned with a fashionable cream wide-brimmed hat topped with pink roses.
If only there were some way of making Lizzie interested in him he would give up Sylvia Dando. Oh, Sylvia was a nice enough girl, and she’d make somebody a good wife, but not him. Sylvia was the same as all the others; somehow she failed to spark off any excitement in him, physical or mental. For him to even consider marriage there had to be some glimmer of passion, of yearning for her, of yearning to be with her. But he did not yearn for Sylvia. He’d courted her for many months now and they’d progressed beyond canoodling, and still he didn’t yearn for her. But he did yearn for this little Lizzie Bishop, Sylvia’s second cousin. Perhaps it was because she was unattainable; because she might think he was too old at twenty-six and because their respective mothers had always been at odds. At least, that was what he assumed; he did not know it for certain.
But in any case, what would her mother think if he were to suddenly start walking out with her, little more than a child at seventeen? Like everyone else, she would no doubt consider the age gap unseemly; she would accuse him of cradle-snatching. Yet all he wanted was to love her and for her to return his love. He wanted to marry her, to be the father of her children, and provide her with a decent standard of living; a standard of living befitting a girl so worthy.
Lizzie Bishop was becoming an obsession. She was the only reason he still went to church, albeit accompanied these days by Sylvia. And who would credit it? Who would believe that he could be longing for this Lizzie Bishop, whom he had watched grow up from a skinny little kid to this vision of femininity? Who would believe it, when he had a pretty girl like Sylvia on his arm, who evidently thought the world of him?
The problem was that there was never an occasion when he might meet Lizzie Bishop to tell her how he felt, or to ask her if she would like to step out with him. Even if there were, would she listen? If only he could find some way of making his feelings known before somebody else claimed her, for somebody surely would, and soon. Otherwise, how could she ever know how he felt? And, knowing, she might even respond positively …
All at once his pulse rate quickened. Lizzie came into view again with her two companions, strolling leisurely towards the dairy house. The other girl was holding the lad’s arm proprietarily. Jesse stood back a step out of the bay to avoid being seen, and watched from behind the huge aspidistra as Lizzie conversed intently with her friends, her eyes lighting up her lovely face which was vibrant with expression. He could hardly fail to notice her feminine curves contrasted against the darker lining of her open coat, the gentle swell of her breasts giving way to her rib-cage, to her flat stomach. He could hardly fail to notice her small waist; the youthful slenderness of her hips; the way she held her head; the way she walked. This yearning was turning, irrevocably turning, into an intolerable ache.
Then, the very antithesis of Lizzie appeared from the opposite direction. It was Phyllis Fat. He watched as they met and talked.
‘… and the new vicar said as it’d have to be the Sunday after,’ Phyllis was saying. She was telling Lizzie that she was getting married because she’d missed three months in a row.
‘Who are you marrying then, Phyllis? Is it somebody we know?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a chap as works with me, name Hartwell Dabbs.’
‘I haven’t heard the banns read out in church. But yours’ll be the second wedding I’ve heard about this week.’
‘Oh. Who was the first, then?’
‘Jack Hardmeat, the butcher, of all folks. He’s getting married next month. Nobody knew he was even courting.’
‘Jack ’Ardmate? And who’ll be the third, d’you think? They say as everything comes in threes.’
Daisy cast a hopeful glance at Jimmy.
But Lizzie nodded towards the dairy house and all eyes followed. ‘Jesse Clancey, for a guess. My Aunt Sarah says it won’t be long before him and our Sylvia are wed.’
Chapter 5 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
Jesse Clancey knew enough of Lizzie Bishop’s comings and goings to know that most Wednesdays she finished work at one o’ clock. So, this last Wednesday of September he decided to do likewise. He’d delivered his empty milk churns, all rinsed out and clean, to the railway station for return to the farm that supplied them, and waited in the road known as Waddam’s Pool, hoping to catch her as she walked home. She should be passing him in ten or fifteen minutes, assuming she stopped to gaze into a few shop windows on the way.
The day was overcast and chilly. The best of the summer had long gone. All they had to look forward to was a dubious October, with more dense fogs to herald the bleak winter. While he waited, Jesse debated with Urchin, his big, dappled grey horse, yet again, the wisdom and the folly of this ploy. He’d been preoccupied with thoughts of how best to approach Lizzie these last few days, till he was sick of thinking about it and the only way to get some relief, and some sleep, was to actually tell her how he felt. She might turn him down flat but, at least, he’d have tried. If he never tried he would never know what his chances were.
‘I’m old enough to know better,’ he muttered dejectedly, confiding in the horse. ‘I could end up looking a proper fool – she’s little more than a child.’ Even if Lizzie fell over herself to accept him he could hardly expect the emotions of one so young to remain serious and constant. It was a major concern. ‘If some fresh-faced, handsome, young lad came along I doubt she’d be able to resist him; and where would that leave me?’
The horse, sensing his unease, nodded as if in agreement and fidgeted, scraping his huge hooves uneasily on the cobbles. Jesse’s confidence drained away as this train of thought persisted, and so did his resolve. He rested his back against the side of his milk float, loosely holding the reins, contemplating his stupidity and feeling strangely conspicuous to the world, as if the world was listening and could hear his thoughts.
There was no point to all this. He would make a move and return home.
Then, in that same moment, he saw Lizzie Bishop walking towards him with Joe Bishop’s young wife. The sight of her smiling eyes immediately revived his spirits and rekindled his ardour. ‘By Christ, she’s here, mate.’ He slapped the horse’s flank affectionately. ‘And looking as pretty as a picture. Damn it, let’s have a go, eh? I’ll try me luck after all, what d’you say, old mate? If I end up looking a fool forever, so what? If I never try, I’ll never win her.’
So he waited till the two girls reached him.
‘Morning, Mrs Bishop. Morning, Lizzie,’ he acknowledged nervously, touching his cap.
Lizzie returned the greeting and, anticipating no further conversation with Jesse, was about to walk on.
But May stopped to pass the time of day. ‘You mean good afternoon, Mister Clancey,’ she said with a hint of good humoured sarcasm. ‘Mornin’ passed above an hour ago.’
‘You’re right, you know.’ For effect, he took out his fob watch and glanced at it briefly. ‘You lose all track of time on this job, And I’d be obliged if you’d call me Jesse, Mrs Bishop. Everybody else does.’
‘If you promise to call me May, instead of Mrs Bishop … Mr Clancey.’
He felt the tension slough off him like a skin when the girls laughed, and he smiled openly. ‘Sounds fair enough to me. Look, I’m on my way home. Can I give you both a lift?’
‘Yes, if you like, Jesse. Better to wear out the horse’s shoes, eh, Lizzie?’
‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’ He mounted the float and took the reins. ‘Seems a shame to walk when I’m passing your front doors.’
This was fine as far as it went, but Jesse had not reckoned on May Bishop’s presence. It occurred to him, though, how much more difficult his task might be if she were not there. This at least was a start.
The two girls raised their skirts a little to step up onto the two wheeled float. ‘Giddup!’ Jesse called, and flicked the reins, causing Lizzie and May to lurch slightly as the ensemble pitched forward. They stood each side of him clutching the sides of the cart with one hand, their baskets with the other. He remained silent for a few seconds, looking straight ahead, desperately trying to devise some way of leaving May at her front door but keeping Lizzie on his float.
‘How’s our Sylvia, Jesse?’ Lizzie enquired. She had put down her basket and was holding onto her hat to prevent the wind taking it.
‘Sylvia? Oh, not too bad … I suppose.’
His lack of enthusiasm prompted May to turn down the corners of her mouth as a signal of surprise to Lizzie. ‘Any sign of you getting wed yet?’ She hoped he might give more away.
‘Huh! None at all. If I said it was serious between us I’d be telling a lie.’
‘Oh, you do surprise me, Jesse. Her mother’s already got you married off and no two ways. That’s right, ain’t it, Lizzie?’
‘To hear her talk it’s all cut and dried.’
Jesse shook his head. ‘She shouldn’t take too much for granted.’
The horse clopped on, steadily pulling the cart up the hill, its big grey head swaying rhythmically from side to side. Lizzie’s thoughts turned inevitably to the Clanceys’ horse that killed her father. This wasn’t the same one, she knew, but there was a bizarre irony in that its replacement was now drawing her home as if that incident five and a half years ago had never happened. She felt like mentioning it, but maybe it was best left unsaid.
Jesse’s comments came as a shock to Lizzie, since she’d always believed that Sylvia and he were devoted. ‘I’m surprised as well, Jesse,’ she said chattily. ‘I was only saying to some of my friends the other day as I expected you to be getting wed after Jack Hardmeat.’
‘You know who he’s marrying?’ he said.
‘No. We never even knew he was courting.’
‘He’s marrying Annie Soap’s youngest daughter, Maria. The one with the black hair.’
‘The one they call the Black Maria?’ Lizzie asked.
Jesse chuckled. ‘That’s her. I don’t know if they’ve got to get wed, but it all seems a bit sudden.’ He turned to May. ‘You must be about due to start a family, hadn’t you, May? You’ve been wed, what? … Nearly a year now, is it?’
May whooped with amusement at his candour. ‘Well I reckon everybody must think it’s about time, Jesse, but believe me, there’s no sign yet. Anyroad, there’s no rush. I’m only twenty-two, you know.’
‘’Course. You’re only a babby yourself yet, May.’
They travelled on in silence for a while, into St John’s Road. By Ivy Morris’s fish and chip shop they turned into Brown Street, where most of Kates Hill’s shops were. Lizzie quietly studied Jesse. He seemed more handsome each time she saw him. He was always well groomed, clean, and he always wore a clean collar and a necktie, even for work. His eyes revealed such a look of sincerity in their blue grey sparkle, and she still couldn’t help thinking how different things might have been. She knew she shouldn’t, because of Sylvia, but she couldn’t help this admiration she still had for Jesse. No, it was more than just admiration; it was a hankering. She felt a warm pleasure, a sense of awe, being in his company so unexpectedly, and was strangely gratified when she noticed him glancing at her from time to time. Yet he seemed tense, despite his easy conversation.
As they turned into Cromwell Street, they saw some activity in one of the shops. During the day it had been gutted.
‘Iky’s opening a fish and chip shop now,’ Jesse explained. ‘It’ll be handy, eh?’
Iky Bottlebrush’s real name was Isaac Knott, but he’d been given his nickname years ago. For years he’d owned the shop, a small grocery, but had provided plated hot dinners for the workers at the brass foundries and the other little factories in the immediate streets. Venturing into fish and chips seemed a logical progression, and everybody wished him well, since he was well liked.
Jesse called the horse to a halt outside Lizzie’s home. The two girls thanked him for the lift and turned to step down. Jesse braced himself, about to suggest that Lizzie stay on the float so he could talk to her. He could say he needed her advice on what to buy Sylvia for her birthday present. He said: ‘May, I wonder if you’d mind …’
‘No need to mention it, Jesse,’ May said, interrupting him as she and Lizzie stepped down. ‘I’ll not breathe a word to a soul. Nor will Lizzie. Will you, Lizzie?’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Give Sylvia our love, just the same. We don’t see much of her these days. Not since you’ve been courting her, keeping her so busy. Why don’t you and Sylvia come and visit us, Jesse? Bring her round for supper one of the nights. Joe would like that.’
‘Eh? … Oh, I will.’ He sighed with frustration. It must be God’s will. He must accept that Lizzie Bishop would never be his, and perhaps be thankful for it. Fate was preventing a liaison; and fate had prevented him making a fool of himself in the nick of time. How could he reasonably expect Lizzie to have anything to do with him when he was Sylvia’s sweetheart? They were a close family and no decent girl would stoop that low. In any case, any girl who would steal her own cousin’s man was not the sort he wanted. It was thus an impossible situation; if this girl, whom he yearned for so much, was prepared to take him under those circumstances, he ought not to want her for having him.
‘Cheerio then,’ he called and flicked the reins once more. As the horse moved on, Jesse turned and waved, and the two girls stood, waving back, smiling graciously. ‘There. I told you I was a bloody fool,’ he muttered to the horse, who responded with a turbulent emission of wind.
May chuckled as they walked into the entry. ‘If that was Jesse he needs a dose of liquid paraffin.’
‘May!’ Lizzie admonished with a snigger. ‘It was the horse.’
‘Let’s hope and pray as it was … But fancy that Jesse not being interested in marrying Sylvia, Lizzie.’
‘I know. It’s a bit of shock.’
‘Not half as much of a shock to us as it’ll be to Sarah. God, there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘He might not say anything, May. He might just go along with it – for years.’
They opened the door and went in the house. Eve was sitting in her usual chair, but she was pale, her eyes were rolling, and she seemed to be fighting for breath. Lizzie was at once alarmed.
‘Mother, Mother, what’s up?’ She went straight to her and felt her forehead.
Eve was sweating, but her skin felt cold and clammy. She looked up at her daughter. ‘Thank God you’m back,’ she said wearily. ‘Oh, I’m that hungry, our Lizzie, but I didn’t want to start me dinner till you got back.’
‘Sit there nice and quiet, Mother. May and me can put the sandwiches up. Have a biscuit to keep you going.’ Lizzie went to the cupboard at the side of the fire grate and took out the biscuit barrel. She opened it and put it in her mother’s lap.
‘The sandwiches am already done, our Lizzie,’ Eve remarked. ‘They’m under a cloth on the shelf at the top of the cellar steps.’
May brought them to the table.
‘D’you think I ought to send for the doctor, May?’
‘It’ll do no harm.’ May cast a glance at Eve who was tucking into her meal ravenously. ‘Is she often like this?’
‘Lately she says she starts to get weak just before mealtimes. She eats like a horse, yet I’m certain she’s losing weight. And drink? All the time she’s drinking water.’
‘It don’t sound right, Lizzie. We’d best fetch the doctor. I’ll get Joe to fetch him tonight after he’s had his tea.’
‘I’ll go and fetch him myself when I’ve had my dinner.’
‘No, leave it till tonight … I should … From what I can hear of Donald Clark you won’t catch him at his surgery yet awhile. He’ll be in The Shoulder of Mutton. You know he likes a drink.’
That afternoon Eve seemed to improve, though she had little of her usual energy. The two girls blackleaded the grate as usual and, when they lit the fire, the first thing Eve requested was that the kettle be put on to boil for a pot of tea. Lizzie scrutinised her mother carefully for other signs that she was unwell. It was not till then that she noticed how often she was getting up to go to the privy.
*
It was at about eight o’ clock that evening when Joe returned to his mother’s house with young Dr. Donald Clark, who had recently taken over his father’s practice. Donald was twenty-seven and a likeable young man. He wasn’t especially handsome, but neither was he repulsive. He had wavy, reddish hair, a ruddy complexion and a substantial nose. There was a gap between his two front teeth, which, when he smiled, seemed to enhance his affability. As they rode together to the Bishops’ house on the ancient dog cart that old Doctor Clark had always used, Joe anxiously described Eve’s symptoms. Donald knew the family well, and Eve had fed him often enough when he and Ted were pals. He was thus concerned about her, and eager to help.
After the pleasantries, Donald took out his stethoscope.
Without being asked, Eve undid the top buttons of her frock. ‘Should I strip off?’
‘No need, Mrs Bishop,’ Donald replied. ‘I just want to listen to your heartbeat.’ He slid the end of his stethoscope over her chest while he listened. ‘Mmm … sound as a bell … Now I want to smell your breath.’ He put his nose near Eve’s mouth and she breathed self-consciously into his face. ‘Mmm … Tell me how you’ve been feeling, Mrs Bishop. What sort of things that have been happening recently that don’t seem normal?’
Lizzie had to repeat the question for her.
‘I’m feelin’ tired all the while, Donald,’ Eve answered. ‘And every half hour I’m havin’ to make water.’
‘Are you having to do that in the middle of the night, too?’
‘Two or three times a night. I’m sick of emptying the slops of a morning.’
‘Are your bowels loose?’
‘Me bones loose?’
‘No, your bowels. Have you been constipated?’
‘Oh … yes … terrible.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I get that weak with hunger, Donald. I tell you, I could eat a man off his hoss. And I could drink a marl hole dry, I’m that thirsty.’
He turned to Lizzie. ‘Anything else, Lizzie? You live with your mother. Have you noticed anything?’
‘Only that she eats well, but I think she’s losing weight.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Losing a bit of weight wouldn’t do her any harm under normal circumstances, but to me it’s a symptom of her illness.’
‘What d’you think’s up with her, then, Donald?’ Joe asked.
Donald sighed and took the stethoscope from around his neck, folded it and put it in his bag. He looked at Joe, then at Lizzie. ‘Her symptoms are consistent with diabetes.’
‘Diabetes?’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘All we know is that it’s a disease that affects the way the body uses sugars and, to a lesser degree, fats. The problem’s caused by a little thing in the belly called the pancreas gland. The disease causes certain of its cells to degenerate so that it can’t cope with sugar and so the body passes the sugar out through the kidneys in the urine.’
‘So what’s the cure?’
‘There is no cure, Lizzie.’
‘No cure?’
‘Having said that, if I’m right in my diagnosis, I believe we can control it so your mother can lead a near normal life. First, I need to double check, of course. I need a sample of her water and a sample of her blood.’
Donald’s words were going round and round in Lizzie’s head in a jumbled whirl. They did not add up to good news. A near normal life? A disease? The pancreas gland? No cure?
‘What’s it mean, Doctor? Will mother be an invalid for the rest of her life?’
Donald saw the anxiety in her eyes and was concerned to put her mind at ease. ‘No, it doesn’t necessarily mean that, Lizzie. We’ve caught it just in time, I think. It’s a good thing you sent for me when you did, because she would’ve become rapidly worse. In another week or two your mother might have slipped into a coma and that would have been a different kettle of fish. What it does mean is that your mother’s got to have a very strict dietary regime. That’s the only way of treating this disease in the long term. But if she sticks to it, God willing she should be able to lead a fairly normal life. That means no sugar in tea, no cakes, puddings, sweets or chocolate. This has to be done carefully though, because we still have to maintain some level of sugar in the blood.’
He paused a moment, evidently deep in thought, his fingers stroking his chin again.
‘That’s the standard treatment,’ he went on, ‘but I’d very much like to try something different. In my opinion as a medical man it seems more logical to try and starve her for a few days until her water is free of sugar, then to build up her dietary with fat and protein. I should warn you though, that this isn’t the recognised way of treating the symptoms. It’s never been tried officially to my knowledge, but I’m absolutely certain it would give us much quicker and more positive results. I’d like your permission to embark on that course of treatment before I do, of course.’
Joe said, ‘But if it’s never been tried how do you know it’ll work, Donald? You might do her more harm than good.’
‘I’ve studied this disease as closely as anybody, Joe. I wrote a thesis at university on Diabetes Mellitus – its full name – and I’ve since had a paper published on it. When I was training I treated people in hospital who had the condition and, strangely, the one who fared best was a woman who couldn’t take food. Only in the last ten years or so have we really begun to understand diabetes, but the more we understand it, the better our treatments get. And knowing what I know, I’d stake my doctorate that starving her for a few days would work.’
‘I trust your judgement, Donald,’ Joe said solemnly. ‘You must know more about it than most doctors, so we have to be thankful for that. As far as I’m concerned, do what you think’s best. What d’you say, Lizzie?’
‘You seem to know what you’re talking about, Doctor. If you think it’ll get Mother better quicker, I reckon you should do it.’
Donald smiled. ‘Good. Of course I shall keep a weather eye on her meanwhile. Now, I’m going to ask her to give me that urine sample. Then I’ll explain it all to her.’
*
So Eve was put to bed and Lizzie took time off work to look after her. Donald Clark’s diagnosis proved to be correct and his new method of treating her worked remarkably well. In consequence, the improvement, he was certain, was far more rapid than it might otherwise have been. Within a few days she was allowed to get up, and her new diet, although severely restricted, stabilised her condition. It required some new thinking on Lizzie’s part. She had to ask herself every time whether or not she had put sugar in her mother’s tea, and usually tasted it just to make certain she had not. Eve’s intake of fat was restricted and it seemed such a pity to have to deprive her of dripping, butter or fried bread; or fried anything, come to that; almost everything she enjoyed.
Donald Clark’s success at treating Eve’s illness drew increasing esteem from everyone; always useful for a new doctor, but particularly so for him since he was being decried already because of his growing reputation for liking a drink. The whole neighbourhood soon got to know about his miraculous treatment. Only a few years earlier, patients suffering from the sugar sickness were fortunate to survive, because doctors did not understand it. Donald refused all payment for his treatment too. It was, he claimed, experimental, so how could he possibly charge for research work that was helping him as much as it was helping Eve?
*
In the run up to Christmas, Phyllis Fat married her Hartwell Dabbs, and Jack ’Ardmate, née Hardwick, wedded Maria Soap, née Hudson. Eve improved sufficiently for Lizzie Bishop to return to work and Lizzie regularly saw Daisy Foster thereafter. She was even introduced to the handsome, blue eyed, black-haired lad called Ben, and there was no doubt that Lizzie really fancied him. Fern, Ben’s sweetheart, saw ever more reason to be jealous of Lizzie, since it was obvious that he in turn fancied Lizzie.
After their last meeting, which was at the Opera House, where they had splashed out and booked sixpenny circle seats to see Vesta Tilley, Lizzie was somewhat concerned about the effect Ben was having on her. He only had to smile at her and she would blush and feel her stomach turn over. But there was no point in dwelling on him because of Fern, who seemed a respectable girl and obviously idolised him. But as the days turned into weeks, Lizzie realised she was thinking more and more about this Ben, and even found herself talking about him to May.
Meanwhile, Eve’s improvement continued apace.
Christmas came and went, bringing bitter cold and frosts. The usual procession of visitors called to see Eve. Her other daughter, Lucy, with her husband, Jimmy Sharpe came down from Stockport and stayed till Boxing Day. May and Joe invited Eve and Lizzie and Lucy and Jimmy to have their Christmas dinners with them, which they did, and they all spent the afternoon and evening pleasantly together.
On returning to work the day after Boxing Day, Lizzie was surprised to see Daisy Foster enter Theedham’s shop, dressed up for the weather.
Daisy said, yes, she’d enjoyed Christmas, thank you. ‘And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Me and Jimmy are thinking of getting engaged.’
‘No! … Honest?’
‘Honest.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t serious, Daisy.’
‘It wasn’t. But it’s getting to be.’ Daisy smiled contentedly.
‘Lucky you! Oh, congratulations. I’m ever so pleased for you.’
‘But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here on a special request, nothing to do with that.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know Ben, Jimmy’s mate? He’s sent me with a message. He wants to know if you’d like to go out with him.’
Lizzie’s eyes lit up, then she put her hands to her face in disbelief and delight. ‘Honest, Daisy? You’re not pulling my leg?’
‘Honest. He asked Jimmy to ask me to ask you.’
‘But what about Fern?’
‘Fern? Him and Fern have fell out.’
‘If they’ve fell out, I’d love to go out with him. When, though?’
‘Well, he was talking about New Year’s Eve. I think the idea was for the four of us to go to a New Year’s Eve ball.’
‘Then he must’ve finished with Fern if he wants to see me on New Year’s Eve,’ Lizzie reasoned.
‘What shall we tell him then? We have to let him know.’
‘I don’t know, Daisy,’ she said ruefully. ‘I can’t go out New Year’s Eve … Damn … May and Joe are having a party. It’s their wedding anniversary and they’re expecting me …’
‘Oh, shame.’ Daisy looked genuinely disappointed.
‘Hang on, though. I’ll ask May if you, Jimmy and Ben can come as well. D’you think that’d be all right? Would you like to come, Daisy?’
‘I don’t mind. I’m sure Jimmy wouldn’t mind either. Nor Ben.’
‘Hang on then.’ Lizzie went to the back of the shop where May was sorting out a fresh stock of candles. ‘May?’
May turned to Lizzie. ‘What’s up, my wench? You look as if you’ve lost a sovereign and found sixpence.’
‘May, you know that chap Ben I’ve been telling you about?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wants to go out with me on New Year’s Eve … but I’ve said I can’t, ’cause of going to your party … ’
‘So?’
‘Well he wants me to go out with him and Daisy and Jimmy as well.’
‘Four of you together?’
‘Yes. So, I was wondering if they could come to your party instead …’
‘So’s you don’t miss the chance of seeing him, you mean?’
‘Well … yes.’
May smiled knowingly. ‘’Course they can come. The more the merrier. Just tell ’em to bring a bottle or two o’ beer. It’ll be nice to have some young faces among all the old fogies. Anyroad, I want to get a good look at this Ben.’
Lizzie’s face lit up. ‘Oh, thanks, May … Thanks … If I can do you a favour some time …’
‘I daresay the time will come.’
She returned to Daisy beaming. ‘May says they’d love to see you.’
Lizzie tried not to raise her hopes too high though. After all, look what happened with Stanley Dando.
Chapter 6 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
By New Year’s Eve, a Tuesday, the weather had become settled. A clear, blue sky afforded bright sunshine during the day, but promised a hard frost that night. Eve and Lizzie visited Joe’s house early to help prepare sandwiches and get everything ready for the party. May lit a fire in the front room and cursed when smoke blew back down the chimney, making her eyes run.
‘I should think Father bloody Christmas is still stuck up the blasted chimney,’ she complained, shoving a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of her coal-blackened hand.
‘I doubt whether it’s ever been swept while the Dowtys lived here,’ Eve commented.
Joe had ordered a firkin of best home-brewed bitter from The Shoulder of Mutton and it was standing chocked up on the scullery table with a pudding basin under the tap to catch the drips. There were four bottles of whisky, a bottle of gin and two bottles of port to offer as well, besides a gallon of lemonade.
Lizzie awaited Ben’s arrival excitedly. She hardly knew him. They’d never had a conversation without somebody else being there. But the way he smiled at her, and the honesty and candour brimming in eyes that sparkled whenever he saw her, churned her stomach with longing.
He duly arrived with Daisy Foster and Jimmy Powell shortly after half past eight. Their faces were glowing from their brisk walk in the bitter cold, but they were dressed warmly in good overcoats, hats and gloves. Lizzie introduced them to Joe and he made them welcome. He took their hats and coats and offered them drinks, which Lizzie was happy to serve in the front room as they settled round the fire. Then she, Daisy, Jimmy and Ben, all sat in a group, squashed up together occupying one half of the sofa and an adjacent armchair.
‘It was nice of you to invite us,’ Daisy said to May and Joe equally. She shuffled to get comfortable on the armchair she was sharing with Jimmy.
‘The more the merrier,’ Joe quipped. ‘Where’ve you had to come from?’
It was Ben who answered. ‘Tividale. It isn’t far, but it’s all uphill. Here, Joe … Do you smoke?’
‘Oh, thanks … How long’s it took you to get here?’
Ben tapped the end of his cigarette on the packet. ‘About twenty minutes. It warms you up a treat, though, on a night like this. There’s a tidy frost.’
Lizzie thought Ben looked wonderful. He wore a dark grey suit with a waistcoat, a maroon and blue necktie, and a white shirt with an immaculate, starched collar. His black hair looked even blacker now it had been greased and sleekly brushed and his eyes danced with the reflected light from the oil lamps and candles. He was clean shaven with a clear complexion and his features were fine and masculine. He was possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even more handsome than Stanley Dando, or Jesse Clancey. He was about six feet tall and lean, but with broad shoulders; a picture of vigorous health, and Lizzie couldn’t take her eyes off him. She felt flutters in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of being alone with him. Being in the same room now, but not able to speak or act freely was immensely frustrating. She wanted to manoeuvre herself closer so she could touch him, so he could touch her, either by accident or by design. She wanted to catch the scent of him; see his eyes crease at the corners from close-to when he smiled. And she wondered if he felt the same about her.
He did. He wanted to tell her how lovely she looked in the cream dress with the pale green trimmings. He admired everything about her, not just her looks, but the easy way she seemed to have with people; and, best of all, there was no side on her – she didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t. For ages he’d wanted to ask her out, but with Fern always at his side it had been impossible.
‘Lizzie says it’s your wedding anniversary,’ Daisy was saying to May.
May linked her arm through Joe’s and glanced up at him affectionately. ‘Twelve months tomorrow.’
‘And it only seems like twelve years,’ Joe chipped in and took a playful slap on the arm for his trouble. He drew on his cigarette and smiled impishly. ‘And afore anybody asks – no, there’s ne’er a babby on the way – but it ain’t for the want o’ tryin’.’
May hit him again, while the men guffawed. ‘You’m gettin’ engaged an’ all, aren’t you, Daisy?’ she enquired, desperate to avoid more embarrassing comments.
Daisy nodded and looked at Jimmy admiringly. ‘We’m thinking about it, eh?’
‘Maybe next year,’ Jimmy confirmed.
‘Any plans yet to get married?’
The couple looked at each other again and grinned self-consciously. ‘Not for a couple of years at least. We want to save up and get some money round us.’
‘That’s good sense, Jimmy,’ Joe proclaimed. ‘You can’t argue with that. What d’you do for a living, mate?’
‘I’m a moulder at a foundry in Tividale – Holcrofts.’
‘I know of Holcrofts.’
‘Ben works there as well. He charges the cupola.’
‘The money good?’
‘It’s all right. We got plenty work, an’ all, eh, Ben?’
‘Plenty,’ Ben agreed. ‘But I want to come off charging. I’m keen to be a ladle man. It’s hard, specially in the summer when it’s hot, but the pay’s better. A lot better.’
Ben was enquiring about Joe’s work when they heard a knock at the back door. It was Tom Dando and Sarah. Sarah came in complaining about the cold. Sylvia would be coming soon with Jesse, she said, when she’d spent half an hour with Ezme and Jack.
‘Help yourselves to drink,’ Joe invited.
Five minutes later Eliza and Ned Bradley arrived, May’s mother and father. They made a fuss of Eve and asked how she was.
‘By Christ, it’s cold enough for a walking stick,’ Ned quipped, warming his hands in front of the fire. ‘It’s icy already. I reckon I’ll be sliding round on me arse all the way ’um.’
‘Like a fairy on a gob o’ lard,’ May suggested.
While Eliza and Ned made themselves known to the folk they hadn’t met before and supped their first drinks, Beccy and Albert Crump arrived. Joe asked what they wanted to drink.
‘A glass o’ port for me, please, Joe,’ Beccy said, rubbing her cold hands.
‘Lemonade if you’ve got it,’ Albert requested defiantly.
‘Oh, have a beer, you miserable old sod – God forgive me for me language,’ Beccy said, casting her eyes upwards. ‘It’s New Year, Albert. Yo’ can’t not have a drink.’
‘Give me a shandy, then, Joe. Anything to save me being nagged to death.’
Sylvia and Jesse arrived. They greeted everyone pleasantly and Jesse gave Lizzie a wink that she thought no more of, but which suggested lots to Ben. Lizzie smiled and introduced her friends. By now the house was crowded and buzzing with chatter and not all the guests had arrived yet. Somebody called for Joe to play his new piano – his pride and joy – and he said he would in a minute.
‘Jesse, fetch your mother to come and play this new piano of Joe’s,’ Albert Crump tactlessly called, his half pint of shandy barely touched. ‘We can’t wait forever for him here.’
Ezme and Jack of course had not been invited; Joe knew how much the woman antagonised his mother. Meanwhile, Daisy and Jimmy had got their heads together and Sylvia and Jesse had moved on.
Ben took a close look at the gold cross and chain Lizzie was wearing, fingering it gently. ‘A Christmas present?’
‘Off Joe and May.’
‘I had a pair of cufflinks – off Fern. Here, look, I’m wearing them.’ He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket.
‘Did she give them to you before or after you fell out?’
‘Before, else I wouldn’t have took them, would I? I did offer them back.’
‘What did you fall out about?’ She’d been dying to ask.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Oh, go on.’ Her eyes flashed with anticipation. ‘Tell me.’
He emptied his glass and threw the end of his cigarette into the fire. ‘It was over you.’
‘Me?’
‘She kept on as I fancied you and accused me of seeing you on our nights off. We had a blazing row and in the finish I said I might as well play the part I’d been cast in.’ He smiled at her expectantly. ‘I’ll get another drink, like Joe said. Shall I get you one, Lizzie?’
‘Please. I’ll come with you, if you like.’
To get out of the smoke-filled room through the middle door into the scullery they had to push past Tom Dando, laughing at Beccy Crump’s irreverent cursing. Eve was in the scullery sitting at the table, as if guarding the beer, still wearing her white apron over her best black frock. She was talking to Sarah, with Sylvia and Jesse standing by.
‘’Scuse me,’ Ben said, sidling into position past him to get to the beer barrel.
‘Oh, Lizzie, I forgot to mention … our Stanley’s coming home in May or June,’ Sylvia said casually, looking Ben up and down with evident approval.
Lizzie considered that Sylvia’s comment was unnecessarily mischievous in the circumstances and she felt her colour rise. ‘Well, give him my best wishes, ’cause I don’t suppose I’ll see him. I think he was avoiding me before he went away.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Lizzie. He’s got no reason to avoid you. You two were always the best of friends.’
Lizzie was aware of Jesse’s eyes burning into her, which was unsettling. She passed her glass to Ben and he filled it from the large stone bottle of lemonade, and handed it back. ‘Thanks, Ben,’ she said with a smile, then sipped her drink.
Sylvia said, ‘Joe and May must be doing well to get the house in such fine order … And to have so many lovely things about them. Especially the new piano … And they’ve only been married a year, Jesse.’
‘I know,’ Jesse replied with indifference.
Lizzie was certain that the next thing to come from Sylvia’s lips would be her own expectations of life when she married. In anticipation, Lizzie glanced at Jesse and reckoned he was thinking the same.
‘With the pair of ’em workin’ they can do it,’ Aunt Sarah chimed. ‘There’s no reason why you and Jesse shouldn’t do the same when you’m wed.’
‘I’ll wait till I’m asked, Mother,’ Sylvia replied stiffly. ‘And perhaps you shouldn’t presume anything till I have been.’ She flashed a withering look at Jesse.
Jesse coughed, shuffled his feet and ran his hand across his moustache with unease. He avoided Sylvia’s glance, swigging the last drops of beer from his glass. Lizzie sensed the tension between them. This was obviously a sticking point; a matter of contention they’d touched on before, but not yet resolved.
Lizzie had no desire to witness an open argument on the subject when she already knew Jesse’s feelings. Maybe it was time she made herself scarce. The last thing she wanted was to have to take sides. ‘It’s so smoky in here,’ she exclaimed. ‘I think I’ll go outside for some fresh air.’
Ben put his glass of beer on the table, glad of the opportunity to accompany her.
But Jesse sensed his intention. ‘Here, Ben. Fill this glass for me, will you. You’re nearer the barrel than I am.’
Obligingly, Ben took the glass and began to fill it.
It bothered Jesse to witness what he believed was Lizzie’s attempt to entice Ben outside. But his own hands were tied. He could do nothing with Sylvia at his side. He could do nothing without revealing his true desires and, in any case, he had more respect for Sylvia’s feelings than to do so openly. But since there was this unexpected competition he ought to do something to combat Ben’s apparent claim and stake his own at last, because he’d been unable to erase this slip of a girl from his thoughts. It was time to tell her how he felt. Perhaps it was even too late.
‘I could do with using the privy,’ Jesse remarked, in an attempt to slip his leash, and moved to follow Lizzie.
‘It’s the top of the yard, Jesse,’ May said. ‘Past Jack Hardwick’s pig-sty. Take an oil-lamp with you.’
‘It’s all right, May, I’ll find my way.’ He barged past Sylvia, opened the door and went out.
‘Well mind you don’t mistake the pig sty for it and piddle on the pigs. It’ll chap their skins vile this weather.’
He closed the door behind him. He had beaten Ben outside, but he could hear the others chuckling at May’s remark. Why did she have to say anything at all? It only drew attention to him. Now he felt even more conspicuous having left at such a sensitive moment. He hoped his real intentions did not look obvious. But he’d acted on a split second impulse, less inhibited because of the alcohol, driven by this urgent need to tell Lizzie how he felt before his rival established himself; and to hell now with the consequences.
The moon was surrounded by a broad, silver halo of air frost. It shone over the back of the brewhouse, lighting the yard up more brightly than any oil-lamp could. The frost on the roofs of Grove Street beyond reflected it back through a million tiny, shimmering crystals. There was no sign of Lizzie, so he stepped down the entry and into the street. He scanned left and right and saw her slender figure silhouetted against the gas lamp opposite the brass foundry, her hands behind her back, her head down. When she heard his footsteps she turned towards him, smiling radiantly, believing it to be Ben.
‘Lizzie. I’ve got to talk to you.’
‘Jesse!’
From The Sailor’s Return they could already hear singing. They watched a middle-aged man, walking from the opposite direction, open the door to the pub and enter. Jesse turned and looked over his shoulder to ensure neither Sylvia nor Ben had followed.
‘Look, Lizzie, I’ve got to talk to you.’
‘To me? What about?’
‘About Sylvia. I’m not in love with her.’
‘You as good as said so before. Ages ago.’ She turned to see if Ben was seeking her yet.
‘I know I did. Trouble is, I believe she thinks a lot of me.’
‘She does. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ll ever find anybody better.’
‘Well that depends, Lizzie. One person’s idea of perfection ain’t necessarily another’s … Here, let’s move away from the lamp. I feel as if the world’s watching.’
They moved a few yards further on to where the terrace was staggered and the recess would conceal them from view. But Lizzie was reluctant in case Ben couldn’t find her. She shivered. The bitterly cold night air seemed to penetrate through to her bones, and the gold studs in her ears were so cold that they made her lobes hurt. She wished she’d thought to put on her coat. At least she would be able to turn the collar up.
‘Well, it isn’t really fair to let her keep thinking I’m in love with her, is it?’
‘I agree. Doesn’t she know yet how you really feel?’
‘Well, yes and no, Lizzie. We’ve talked about marriage, and I’ve told her I’m not ready for it yet. But I did tell her once as I loved her, that’s the trouble. That was in the beginning, and to tell the truth I believed it myself at the time. Not now, though. It was a mistake to say it and I admit it. But how could I tell her after that it was a lie?’
‘But she’ll have to know sooner or later,’ Lizzie said and shivered.
‘I know that, Lizzie … Sooner, I reckon … You see, there’s somebody else.’
‘Oh, Jesse. You mean you’re going with somebody besides Sylvia?’
‘No, no. I mean there’s somebody else I want. Somebody else I’m in love with. I’m not seeing her … yet.’
‘Oh. So are you giving Sylvia up then, for this other girl?’
‘Well that’s my intention. If it all works out.’
‘It’ll break her heart, you know, Jesse.’
Lizzie was surprised at the ease with which she was talking with him. Throughout her life till this minute she’d never spoken more than a dozen words at a time to him. The obvious differences in age and gender, and their mothers’ senseless feud, had always conspired to create this unfortunate forbiddance, in her mind at any rate. But already she was engrossed in his personal life, pleased that he should consider her worldly enough to confess to. Whatever advice he asked for she would give it, impartially, and gladly. He was out of her own emotional reach now, anyway.
The sound of Joe now playing his new piano drifted out, and the accompanying singing drowned the revelry from The Sailor’s Return. Lizzie’s teeth began to chatter.
Jesse sighed with desperation. ‘Lizzie, I can’t go on as I have been – denying myself to spare Sylvia’s feelings. I swear, you’ll never believe just how hard it’s been. I’ve got this … this longing for this girl and it’s driving me mad.’
Lizzie thought how sad and intense his face looked in the half-light. She saw his eyes fill up, and his sincerity moved her. She began to understand the agony he was going through. ‘Does she know, Jesse?’ she asked intently. ‘Does this other girl know you feel like this?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve never had the courage to tell her. I’ve always been afeared she’d turn me down.’
‘Then it’s time you said something. If you don’t, how will you ever know whether you’ve got a chance? … So who is she? If you want to tell me, that is.’
He bent down and picked up a stone, then immediately tossed it back into the horse road as he fought with his indecision. He had to tell Lizzie; he had to confess his love; and it had to be now, or the moment would be lost forever.
‘It’s you, Lizzie,’ he said, turning to look into her eyes for her reaction. ‘It’s you. Nobody else. You’re the one I want.’
Lizzie mentally gasped, not knowing what to say. Strangely she could feel the cold no more; rather, she felt hot. It was very flattering, but this was attention she could have done without. It was attention she had not sought, even though she had secretly desired it. It instantly evoked all sorts of images in her mind, some logical, some outlandish; images she would never have dreamed of two minutes ago; images of Jesse caressing her; of Sylvia heartbroken and fraught with distress; of her own mother chiding her because of the inevitable battle over who would make the best wedding dress; of Aunt Sarah chasing her with a big stick and calling her a scarlet woman.
But what could she say? If things had been different he might even now be courting her, and Ben would never even have entered the frame. But with Sylvia so in love with him it would complicate things too much; her conscience would not allow it. Even though she liked Jesse well enough.
But now there was Ben to consider. She had set her heart on Ben and she was as driven to him as the birds in the trees were driven to build nests and lay eggs. Nobody else would do. Not now.
Jesse seemed to sense her dilemma. ‘Before you say anything, Lizzie, I want you to understand that I realise there’s a big difference in our ages – I know you’re only young. I’ve thought about that – but I don’t think it matters much. If it doesn’t matter to you, it certainly doesn’t matter to me.’
Lizzie gulped. This news had come as a great shock, and Jesse had no idea how much of a shock. Already he was going too fast.
‘I don’t know what to say, Jesse. I’m that flattered. Really I am … to think as you see me like that. But I couldn’t be responsible for breaking our Sylvia’s heart. And surely you couldn’t expect me to? I could never live with myself if I had that on my conscience.’
‘I think I realise that. But at least I’ve come out into the open with it. I had to. It’s been driving me mad.’
‘But I couldn’t be what you want me to be without hurting our Sylvia.’
He turned away and shrugged his shoulders, and she heard his deep, heart-felt sigh. ‘So what d’you reckon I should do, Lizzie? Carry on and marry her? Even though I don’t love her? Should I sacrifice myself for the sake of her feelings? Should I ruin my own life so as not spoil hers?’
The biting cold seized her again. She put her hands to her shoulders, huddling herself to generate some warmth. She ought to go back indoors now – back to Ben, and all the fun; back to where all the laughter was; back to the warmth of the roaring fire. Ben would wonder what had happened to her. Any minute now he was bound to come looking. If he saw her with Jesse he would jump to the wrong conclusion, and that would be the end of that – another romance finished before it even started.
But it was not easy to turn her back on such potent admiration, when she had admired Jesse so much.
‘No, I don’t think you should wed Sylvia just because she expects it, Jesse. That’d be stupid. I think a couple should both want the same, otherwise there’s no point in them marrying. You’ll just have to tell her.’
‘But what about you, Lizzie? Would you consider taking me after I’d given up Sylvia? After a respectable time, I mean. After a month or so. I can wait. Then they could lay no blame on you.’
She avoided his eyes as the magnitude of his design struck her. ‘I hardly know you, Jesse. And even if I said yes, I should still know deep inside as it was me that caused our Sylvia to suffer. And what would her family think of me when they got to know that I’d taken her place?’
‘Maybe you worry too much about what other folk might say, Lizzie. That’s the trouble with everybody these days. It’s always what everybody else might think as dictates what anybody does. Look, Lizzie, I’m in love with you … And I don’t think you dislike me either …’
She didn’t answer. She thought better of encouraging him; of confessing that she’d always held a sneaking desire for him. He was presentable and decent. He was devastatingly handsome, his family were prosperous and his prospects were significantly better than most men’s. Of course she liked him. She had drooled over him. What girl wouldn’t?
He said, ‘D’you want to think about it? I imagine it’s come as a bit of a surprise.’
‘Oh it’s come as a surprise all right, but what’s the point thinking about it? I do like you, Jesse. I’ve always liked you. If only you knew! But Sylvia makes it impossible.’
‘So if I’d asked you to start courting afore I asked Sylvia, would you have said yes?’
‘Yes.’ She shivered again. ‘Of course I would … Gladly.’
He smiled ruefully at the wicked irony of it. ‘And I wouldn’t ask you ’cause I thought you were too young and your mother might not like it.’
‘I suppose she’d have got used to it. But I don’t think yours would have liked it. I don’t think your mother’s particularly fond of me, or my mother … I hear she thinks a lot of Sylvia, though.’
‘What my old lady thinks is neither here nor there. I’ve got my own life to lead.’
‘I’m sorry, Jesse. I am really. But in any case I’ve started seeing Ben now. It wouldn’t be fair on him, would it?’ It was an exaggeration of the truth, but in her desire now to extricate herself honourably, and without hurting his fragile feelings too much, she felt justified in saying it. And Jesse could not prove otherwise.
He shrugged, having to accept what she said. Yet somehow he felt better. The knowledge that he could have had her if he’d asked, and the relief of finally confessing the feelings he’d been bottling up for months, somehow lifted him. There might still be a chance.
Suddenly he reached for her, and his arms embraced her, clutching her to him. At once the heat from his body started to penetrate her own clothes, bringing warm relief from the biting cold, enough to keep her there for a second or two longer. She looked up at him with clear, shining eyes, half admonishing for his audacity, half grateful for those few moments of protective warmth when she needed it. But as soon as he saw her face upturned, his lips were on hers, urgently tasting her, savouring their accommodating softness, fulfilling a longing he’d harboured for so long. She allowed him to linger, not knowing whether to resist or to wring as much enjoyment from it as she could. But the immediate pleasure of his kiss outweighed her inclination to resist. She felt him growing in confidence at her unwitting responsiveness, tensing his grip around her waist with a passionate squeeze. She had often wondered how his lips, his big moustache, would feel if ever he kissed her. Now she knew. It was a rewarding experience. Her own arms went inside his jacket, to his waistcoat and around his waist, as if they had been long time lovers. It felt so warm in there and she was so cold. And his kisses were so gentle, so comfortable, so delectable.
‘Say you’ll be mine, Lizzie. I need you. Say you’ll be mine.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, I would’ve done, Jesse. I would’ve done. But how can I now? It’s just impossible. You know it’s impossible.’
‘Nothing’s impossible if you want it bad enough.’
She paused, looking into his disappointed eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Jesse … I shouldn’t have let you kiss me like that. It was naughty of me.’
‘You seemed to like it.’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it,’ she said quietly.
Neither spoke for long seconds. He knew without any doubt in those moments that he had failed to win her. Deep down he had always known he could never win her. She was beyond his reach.
‘If you ever change your mind …’
‘If I ever change my mind you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
He hugged her again and they remained holding each other; the warmth of his body detaining Lizzie longer still – much longer than it ought.
‘Do me a favour, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to a soul, for fear of it getting back. I intend to finish with Sylvia, but I want her to hear it from me, no one else.’
‘I won’t breathe a word, Jesse, I promise. I’d better go back in now. I’m froze to death.’
‘Go on, else you’ll catch your death. I’ll be back in a minute. Sylvia thinks I’ve gone up the yard.’
‘Sylvia thought you’d gone up the yard,’ a woman’s voice said.
They both turned. There was no mistaking that tall, willowy frame even in the darkness. Sylvia’s face was in shadow, the street lamp behind her, and they could not see the stony contempt in her eyes. Her tone of voice, however, was cold as frozen marble, and her diction, so prim and correct these days, lent it a colder edge, even frostier than the weather. Lizzie and Jesse instantly, guiltily, let go of each other. They looked at her, then at each other. It was exactly the sort of confrontation neither wanted. They wondered how much she’d heard; but however much, she had seen them embrace, perhaps even witnessed their lingering kiss.
‘So this is what’s been going on behind my back, is it? This is why you only want to see me three nights a week, is it, Jesse Clancey?’
‘Nothing’s been going on behind your back, Sylvia.’
‘It doesn’t seem like it. Well, our Lizzie, you can have him and welcome, and I hope to God as I never see either of you again as long as I live.’ She burst into tears and fished in the pocket of her coat for a handkerchief. ‘I’m disgusted at you, Lizzie, I really am. But I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Not the way I’ve seen you looking at him.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘And to think you’re leading that other poor lad on in there as well. You really ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, you’re no better than a common harlot … and everybody thinks butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’
Lizzie was annoyed at this slur on her innocence. Until now she’d hung her head in sheer embarrassment at being caught in this compromising situation. But why should she feel guilty? She had nothing to hide. It was all innocent enough from her own point of view. She understood how it must have looked to Sylvia, though, so she tempered her pique.
Sylvia turned to go.
‘Sylvia, no matter what it looked like, we were just standing here talking …’
‘Yes, in each other’s arms. And I heard what you were saying.’ Sylvia turned to face her again with increasing scorn. ‘I heard him tell you to keep it quiet in case I found out.’ Although she tensed with vehement anger and frustration, her emotions were surprisingly well under control.
‘For Christ’s sake, Sylvia,’ Jesse said. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. You’ve got nothing at all to blame Lizzie for. She was trying to protect you.’
‘Protect me? Holding you like that? Protect me from what? Do you think I’m completely stupid?’
‘Lizzie, you’d best get back inside as you were about to. Leave me and Sylvia to sort this out between us. She might as well know the rest of it.’
‘I don’t want to hear anything from either of you,’ Sylvia said, contemptuous of being scolded like a disobedient child. ‘My eyes have never deceived me yet.’
‘Well, whether you want to hear or no, you’re going to listen. You can either listen here, or you can listen while I walk you back home, ’cause there’s no way you’re going back into Joe’s house till I’ve told you the truth.’
Lizzie was about to wish them a happy new year as she walked away, but stopped herself; neither the moment, nor the sentiment were appropriate.
‘Lizzie!’ Sylvia called icily. ‘Be sure that after this I shall get my own back. If it takes the rest of my life I’ll get my revenge. No woman steals my man and gets away with it.’
‘Sylvia, I haven’t stolen your man. I haven’t even tried.’
She turned and hurried away, never more glad to be out of an awkward situation. The noise as she passed by the window drowned out any conversation Jesse and Sylvia were now having. Joe was playing ‘Roll out the Barrel’, and most of the guests were singing along to it. Lizzie realised that Sylvia couldn’t have heard very much of what Jesse had said, from that distance at any rate. But seeing her in his arms was enough.
Back in the house Lizzie shuddered as the warm air enveloped her, displacing the cold. She headed straight for the fire and held her cold hands over it, still reeling from the encounter.
‘Every time that door opens the damned cold wafts in,’ Eve complained to Sarah. ‘We might as well be sittin’ up the yard in the privy as sittin’ here. Me belly’s roasted like a bit o’ brisket, and me back’s like ice. It serves me barbarous.’
As she stood by the fire, thinking, Lizzie didn’t know which experience was having the most profound effect on her: Jesse Clancey’s confession; his scrumptious kisses; or Sylvia’s cold hostility. None should have come as any great surprise. She recalled how Jesse always used to ogle her and smile; and Sylvia had shown signs of resentment then, come to think of it. After her little outburst tonight, though, Lizzie decided she wouldn’t be troubled any more at the thought of going out with Jesse. She resented Sylvia’s accusations to the point where she would welcome the chance to get her own back. If her name was going to be blackened it might as well be justified. Yet she knew she would not do it, not even out of revenge. She couldn’t, for she was not of a vindictive nature; and deep down she understood Sylvia’s possessiveness.
‘Lizzie. You’re back.’ It was Ben, standing at her side. She had not noticed him as she gazed into the fire. ‘I went to look for you.’
She smiled at him absently, politely, as though it were the first time she had ever caught sight of him. Then she strove to shake off the fetters of preoccupation. ‘Hello, Ben,’ she said, her eyes wide, happier now, relieved he hadn’t spotted her with Jesse. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a while.’
‘Are you all right? Shall I get you a drink?’
‘I should already have one somewhere. You poured me some lemonade before I went out, didn’t you? I think I fancy something stronger now though. Something to warm me up a bit.’
‘I’ll get you a glass of port, eh?’
The piano playing and the singing stopped momentarily, at which point Lizzie heard Joe calling May to fetch the Hardwicks. May acknowledged him and duly disappeared through the back door. Eve and Sarah, still occupying the scullery and their guardianship of the drinks, shivered again and flashed looks of cold discontent at each other. Sarah finally suggested they take up occupation of the front room where there was only the draught under the front door to contend with; surely somebody would be gentleman enough to offer them a seat. So there was a temporary disruption and rustling of long skirts while they shifted. Meanwhile Joe had begun playing the piano again – a tune called ‘I Wouldn’t Leave My Little Wooden Hut for You’. Amidst the laughing and the general chatter they heard a solitary voice rise, singing along to the piano. It was Beccy Crump who, when she’d had a drink or two, was noted for her uninhibited renditions of this and other songs.
Lizzie, warmer now, sat down on the bottom stair next to the grate, and Ben joined her, bearing her a glass of port and his own pint of beer. She took the port and sipped it, savouring its intensity as it slid down her throat. The back door opened and she looked up with apprehension, expecting to see Sylvia and Jesse, but it was May, who had returned with Jack and Maria Hardwick and Jack’s father and mother. May issued them drinks and they, too, disappeared into the front room, with Maria heavily pregnant, laughing, pretending to conduct the music as they went.
‘When you went outside I was intending to come with you,’ Ben commented when they were alone again. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘When I couldn’t find you I came back inside.’
‘Sorry,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I wish you had found me in time.’
‘Why? What’s up, Lizzie?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you later, when I’ve stopped shivering.’
‘Look, I fancy a walk outside myself. When you’ve warmed up a bit shall we go out for five or ten minutes? Then you can tell me what’s up.’
‘It’s bitter cold out there, Ben. I don’t mind, though – as long as I’m wrapped up warm next time.’ The idea of being alone with Ben on this cold night was starting to appeal again, not just to get away from the atmosphere that was bound to prevail if Jesse and Sylvia returned.
Beccy Crump reached the end of her song and predictably commenced singing, ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’. Lizzie turned and smiled at Ben.
‘He fancies you, Lizzie – that Jesse,’ Ben remarked trenchantly and drew on his cigarette.
‘Oh? D’you think so?’ She was hardly thrilled to be reminded of it after the trouble it had caused.
‘Judging by the way he was looking at you earlier, and the way he followed you outside. D’you fancy him?’
‘I suppose I do,’ she said, teasing him with the truth, but absolving herself because she could not lie easily. ‘I always used to, anyway.’
‘Don’t you think he’s a bit old for you?’
‘Not really … Oh, Ben, don’t let’s talk about Jesse.’
‘Why? Has he upset you? Tell me what’s up.’
She looked around. If Jesse and Sylvia walked in now, or even just the one of them, she would want the floor to open up and swallow her.
‘Let’s go for that walk now and I’ll tell you. Not in here where other folks can hear.’
Ben looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It wanted twenty-five minutes to eleven.
‘Don’t forget your hat and coat this time, then,’ he said, reaching his own from the back of the cellar door. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’
A group of people entered The Sailor’s Return, all done up in their best clothes, and another group left. Ben could hear Joe playing his piano and it sounded as though everybody in the room was singing their hearts out. He looked up at the north sky, cloudless, clear, and drew on his cigarette. His mind was full of Lizzie. Daisy had assured him Lizzie had no romantic attachment, and whenever he’d seen her out she was never with a lad; but what was happening with this Jesse? Should he back off for fear of upsetting some other arrangement? He would be loath to do so. Before all this he thought he had a chance. Now he was confused.
Ben liked things clear cut. He liked to know where he was going long before he got there. There was no ambiguity in his own mind as to the likely outcome of a liaison with Lizzie; nor in his feelings, once he was on a given course. He was straightforward and everything had to be above board. He was forthright and if he had anything to say he said it. He was not one for skirting round a problem when he could meet it head on. Neither was he one for flannelling; what he said, he meant.
He heard Lizzie’s footsteps in the entry and turned to see her emerge in her pale coloured coat, her collar turned up to keep out the cold. The street lamp thirty yards away picked out her fine features and he thought she looked so beautiful, yet so preoccupied. He remembered the way Jesse had been looking at her; it was hardly surprising; how could he reasonably expect this girl to have no other admirers? They must surely be falling over each other in the rush.
‘Which way should we go?’ he asked.
‘Uphill’s best.’ Lizzie clutched the collar of her coat to her neck.
‘Go on, then. Tell me what’s upset you.’
She made no response at first, searching for an appropriate way to begin.
‘Tell me what it was, Lizzie. I like things out in the open. I’m not one for secrets and bottling things up.’
Another couple walked towards them. They said nothing more till they’d bid them season’s greetings and gone past.
Then she told him the truth, exactly as it happened. She told him precisely what Jesse had said, and her response, almost word for word. She told him how utterly surprised she was to learn how he felt about her, and assured Ben that she’d never ever tried to lure him away from Sylvia. She told him how they fell unpremeditated into each others’ arms. She told him how Sylvia found them thus and totally misjudged the situation, expressing her concern that such a mistake, however it looked to Sylvia, could open up a needless rift between the two families. But she did not tell him Jesse had kissed her, nor how much she’d enjoyed it.
They turned the corner at The Junction public house. A latch squeaked and clattered, then a door banged and a man wearing a cloth cap and white muffler stumbled out onto the footpath, the worse for drink. There was raucous laughter from within, and somebody played the first few bars of ‘Wait till the Sun Shines Nellie’ on an accordion. Singing began as the couple crossed the street towards Percy Collins’s shop on the opposite corner. It seemed that the whole world was partying.
‘Do you believe me, Ben?’ Lizzie asked intently. This evening had promised so much, but so far it had yielded nothing but trouble. She prayed he would believe her.
‘Yes, I believe you, Lizzie.’
‘That’s a blessing. Especially since I told Jesse I was already seeing you regular. That was presuming a bit, I know. Do you forgive me?’
‘Forgive you? I’d like to start seeing you regular anyway, Lizzie. You’re my sort of girl.’
Lizzie smiled, barely able to conceal her elation. ‘I’d like that, Ben,’ she said softly. ‘I barely know you, though. What if we don’t get on?’
‘I’m willing to take a chance if you are. I’m willing to bet as we’d get on like house a-fire.’ As he spoke he felt for her gloved hand at her side. It startled her when he held it. ‘Would I be able to trust you, though, with that Jesse about?’
She smiled. ‘Oh, Ben. If we’re going to start courting, I can promise you that.’
They walked on in silence for a while, hand in hand, enjoying the moment, turning to smile at each other every few seconds, squeezing each other’s fingers. Lizzie felt warm now from the glow within her, and she felt the tension of her previous encounter with Jesse drain away. Neither the bitter cold, nor the frost crunching beneath her frozen feet, could overcome the warmth of this joy and relief.
‘It was five and twenty to eleven when we come out,’ Ben said at last. ‘Perhaps we’d better get back.’
‘No, not yet. Let’s just walk to the top of the hill. We’ll be able to see for miles from there, it’s so clear. It’s not far.’
Presently they reached the top of Hill Street where the road levelled out. They crossed to the other side and found themselves overlooking a steep embankment. Allotments and an array of rotting old sheds lay immediately below, and a little further away the head gear and buildings of the old Springfield Pit. Beyond that was a vast industrial plain sweeping before them to the north and north east; a landscape randomly pock-marked with quarries and slag heaps.
The light from the moon and the stars enabled them to see much more than they might on any other night; even features of the terrain. Lights twinkled as far as the eye could see, and the red glow of furnaces and ironworks in the distance, still toiling on this festive night, bloomed and faded according to their mode of activity. Products of all descriptions, from all sorts of materials, for practically every purpose under the sun, were being manufactured within sight, even tonight, for the use of mankind the world over.
From this vantage point Lizzie and Ben overlooked Tipton, West Bromwich, Oldbury and Smethwick; a massive expanse of factories. Countless red brick chimney stacks bristled up, spewing out endless columns of grey smoke that were visible even now. The dark, skeletal structures of the pit headgear of scores of collieries visible against the frosted landscape were no relief from the tedious acres of dismal pit banks and cheerless slate roofs, shimmering now with frost as the moonlight glinted off them. During the day the wind had cleared the dust and smoke from the atmosphere; now they could see for miles.
‘It’s so still up here,’ Ben remarked. ‘Listen. You can actually hear the sounds from the factories in the distance.’
They listened intently. It was true. Here and there they heard the sibilant clang of metal against metal as a furnace was charged, the thrum, permanently embedded in the air, of a thousand steam engines, the far-off thuds of forging hammers, intermittent and barely discernible; but it was there; all the industrial sounds ever created by man were there, like a distant abstract symphony, in the silence.
Lizzie snuggled up to Ben as if she had known him years, and he put his arms around her. But it was not the same as when Jesse had embraced her. This was easier. There was no guilt. She did not have to consider Sylvia. She did not have to consider Fern. She did not have to consider anybody, except Ben and herself. She could melt into his arms with utter contentment. No one was about to break in on them and mar their comfortable intimacy. There seemed to be such peace between them. It was such luxury.
‘Look at the stars,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never seen so many stars.’
‘Lizzie?’ She looked into his eyes. ‘I want to ask you something?’
‘What?’
‘Can I kiss you? I’ve been dying to kiss you.’
‘But Ben … What would you think of me if I let you?’
‘No less than I already do. If we’re gunna see each other regular then we’ll end up kissing sooner or later.’
‘And if I let you kiss me you won’t think I’m cheap?’
‘Cheap? ’Course not. I already know you’re decent and respectable.’
He planted a kiss gently on her cheek, as soft as a butterfly landing on a blossom, lingering for a second. Then his lips slowly brushed across her face, moving inexorably to her mouth. She did not resist; rather she waited excitedly, her lips sensually parted; ready for him. It seemed like an age, but in a few seconds she felt his mouth on hers, soft, searching, hungry for contact. Inevitably she compared it to Jesse’s kiss: it was different because Ben had no moustache, but it was no less pleasant. But with this kiss she could respond whole-heartedly; wring full pleasure from it. She felt her skin running with warmth. It was so pleasant she thought it must be utterly wicked, and broke off, panting a little, feeling guilty after all, her breath hot in the cold, night air.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she sighed. But she wanted to experience him more; much, much more. He made her toes curl; he sent tingles up and down her spine. Kissing him was far too pleasant to avoid.
He drew her closer. When he felt no resistance he searched for her lips again and found them waiting for him as if she was expecting it. For the first time ever he felt her body against him, and he ran his hands down the back of her coat to better appreciate her slenderness, while his lips enjoyed the taste of her.
Lizzie’s pulse raced and her mind raced with it. She sensed an unforeseen reaction deep, deep within her, ruthlessly churning up her emotions, tearing anarchically at her very soul, like nothing she had ever known before. Parts of her seemed to come alive that she never expected could. She was longing to be touched, longing to be caressed, and it was a revelation. Her breathing came faster, because these new, sudden sensations were exhilarating, tearing her breath away; her legs were like jelly; her head seemed to spin.
It was some minutes before she became acclimatised to all this delight. She broke off casually, reluctantly, to get her breath back and muster her thoughts. She rested her head on Ben’s shoulder. Would it always be like this? Could it always be like this? Then, strangely, just for a moment, she noticed the cold again, yet infinitely more intense than before and she shuddered. Was this fleeting sensation that penetrated through to her very bones an omen? He sensed her sudden angst and squeezed her affectionately, protectively, rubbing his cheek against her lush brown hair.
‘I’ve been dying to do that for ages,’ Ben whispered. ‘I’ve often wondered what it’d be like, kissing you.’
She sighed, looked up into his eyes and smiled, for the awful, ominous chill left her as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I’ve wondered the same about you, Ben, but I don’t suppose you’ll believe it.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, I’d like to believe it. I want to believe it.’
‘It’s true … I swear it’s true.’
He held her a while longer, savouring the emotions and this other unworldly atmosphere.
‘Come on,’ he said at last. ‘We’d better get back. They’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’
‘Oh, let ’em wonder. Come on. Let’s carry on with our walk. As long as we’re back before midnight so you can let the new year in for us …’
Chapter 7 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
January saw Ben Kite and Lizzie Bishop meeting three or four times a week when he was not working the night shift. Even when the weather was too inclement to venture out Ben would make the uphill trek from Tividale to Kates Hill and spend the evening at Cromwell Street with Lizzie, content with a lingering, goodnight kiss at the back door before he returned home. To be alone they would take a stroll, either through Oakham’s quiet lanes, or into the town where they could gaze into shop windows and weave their dreams.
Eve took to Ben at once. She would have no qualms if things progressed to marriage; he was all she had hoped for in a son-in-law.
And Ben was eager to show off his lovely new sweetheart to his mother and his brothers. So one cold, crisp night, when snow was lying a couple of inches thick, he persuaded Lizzie to walk with him to Tividale to meet them. He had four brothers, but on this first visit she met only two, since the other two were married and lived elsewhere. Ben’s mother, Charlotte, pale, thin and withdrawn, had sought solace in Methodism. His father was the reason.
‘I can remember even when I was a babby, Lizzie, how my father used to come home blind drunk of a night,’ Ben told her as they sauntered hand-in-hand past the old brick works, towards Kates Hill. ‘He used to set about me and my brothers, and then our mother. Mother always had a black eye in those days. He served her barbarous. We hated the sight of him … Still do … If I thought I was going to turn out like him, I’d do away with myself. By the time he came back home of a Friday night, all his money had gone on drink and betting. Mother seldom had any money to feed us and we’d never got backsides in our trousers, nor soles on our shoes. If it hadn’t been for other Methodists my mother knew, and our Cedric and David bringing some money in, we’d have starved. I got no respect for him. No respect at all.’
‘It must be terrible to have no respect for your father.’ Lizzie’s breath hung like mist.
‘It is, I agree. But, as I see it, being a father don’t entitle you to respect. Respect’s something you have to earn – even your own father has to earn it. Mine never earned any respect from anybody – not even his workmates – least of all from us lads. He’s nothing but a pig, Lizzie.’
‘Thank goodness you’re nothing like him.’ She put her arms around his waist and squeezed him warmly. ‘If I ever see you getting like him, I’ll remind you what you said.’
‘There’s no fear of it, Lizzie.’
‘I think I know that already, Ben,’ she said softly, all her love in her eyes. ‘I think you’re too considerate to be like your father.’
‘Despite him, or because of him, I understand the difference between right and wrong – between good and bad. I can see what makes folk happy, and I can see how some folk can make others unhappy, as if there’s a sort of sadistic pleasure to be gleaned from it. It generally all stems from drink, you know, like it does with him. Not that I’m against drink, Lizzie – I like a drink myself.’
‘There’s no harm in having a drink. It’s when folks get proper drunk … all the time.’
‘What about your own father, Lizzie. Did he drink?’
‘Like a fish. He liked a drink more than anybody, but at least he never knocked our mother about … And he always turned his money up. Mind you, I’ve found out, since I’ve been older, that he was fond of women. Rumours maybe, I don’t know for sure. But even our Joe thinks he had one or two other women in his time. I loved him dearly though. He was always kind to me, and to the others, as far as I know.’
‘Does your mother know he had other women?’
‘She’s never said as much. Not to me at any rate. Either way, it never stopped her being a good wife.’
‘It’s amazing how tolerant some women can be.’
‘Daft, more like. I don’t think I’d be as tolerant, Ben. I’m sure I wouldn’t. I’d be a suffragette.’
They walked on in silence for a few moments, the snow underfoot crisp with frost.
‘What do you think of the suffragettes?’ Lizzie enquired. ‘D’you agree with what they’re doing?’
‘No, I don’t. But I agree with what they stand for – the right for women to vote and all that – there’s nothing wrong with that. But I don’t agree with the way they’re going about it. The more outrageous the things they do, the more they alienate ordinary, decent folk.’
‘You’ll have to talk to May about Mrs Pankhurst, Ben. May thinks Mrs Pankhurst’s a saint.’
‘Mrs Pankhurst’s a bloody fool, Lizzie. Women would get the vote a lot sooner if she shut up. Women are denied the vote now out of defiance for the way she and her cronies carry on.’
‘Well, I think she’s a brave woman. May says the only reason women won’t get the vote yet is because the Liberals would lose too many votes to Labour. Campbell-Bannerman would be out of office.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t argue with that. It’s obvious as the Liberals would lose out. Labour supports the suffragettes, and most women would vote Labour. But it’d be Lord help us if that damn fool Keir Hardie ever got to be prime minister.’
Lizzie then had a précis of the life of Keir Hardie. The way Ben argued it she agreed with him that somebody less radical might be the best choice for Britain.
They reached the back door of 48 Cromwell Street, and Lizzie let her mother know she was home. They stood for five minutes at the top of the entry whispering to each other and giggling, punctuating their words with kisses. But the bitter cold precipitated Ben’s departure sooner than either would have preferred.
Lizzie was in love. Ben was never out of her thoughts, and seldom out of her conversation. It was like the time when she was infatuated with Stanley Dando; except that what she felt for Ben seemed many times stronger. Perhaps it was because her love was reciprocated. Perhaps it was because the memory of the heartache of that earlier unhappy time was fading. She did not have to cope with dejection, of wondering why this lad was avoiding her, for he was not; he would walk Great Britain to be with her. She had not told him yet that she loved him, but she suspected he knew. Anyway, it was up to him to tell her first. When they were together they were blissfully happy, joyful, easy with each other. Their affinity was strong, but not intense and, when they were apart, they relived over and over in their minds the moments they shared.
*
Jesse Clancey managed to catch sight of Lizzie one evening as she was returning from work. He’d walked to Brown Street to get his hair cut and buy a gallon of lamp oil, and as he came out of Totty Marsh’s shop carrying his can Lizzie was passing on the other side of the street. He called to her, and she turned round.
‘How are you, Lizzie?’
He crossed over to join her, and she replied with an open smile that she was well. She knew she must meet up with Jesse sooner or later, for she had not seen him since the fiasco of New Year’s Eve; but she’d been dreading the moment.
‘You look well, Lizzie. You always look a picture.’
She smiled and thanked him again.
‘You’re courting strong, I hear. Is it the same chap as was at Joe’s on New Year’s Eve?’
She nodded with a self-conscious smile as they turned the corner into Cromwell Street. They passed a woman and her daughter, poorly dressed, pushing a small handcart containing a few lumps of coal along the gutter. Jesse greeted them cheerily, then turned to Lizzie.
‘I expect you’ve heard about Sylvia and me, eh?’
She looked up at him. ‘No, nothing, Jesse. Not a thing.’
‘We split up that night, you know. Well, you saw how wicked she was when she copped us together.’
‘I’ll never forget it, Jesse.’ She blushed at the memory of Jesse’s stolen kisses.
‘Well, when she calmed down, I walked her back home. I told her then as I didn’t love her, and there was no point in carrying on. And that was that, really. I’ve neither seen her, nor heard from her since.’
‘I guessed you must’ve broken it off, Jesse, but I hope you told her I was innocent of everything.’
‘Oh, I did. I made that plain.’
‘Well, maybe you didn’t make it plain enough. There’s none of the Dandos been a-nigh our house since that night. Something’s been said and they must’ve taken the hump, but there’s no need for my Uncle Tom and Aunt Sarah to stop calling to see my mother. She had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘I’m sorry if it’s caused her any trouble. I really am.’
‘It’s caused her no trouble in that sense, Jesse. She knows nothing about it. They haven’t been to church since, either. I guessed Sylvia must’ve told them what had happened, and I knew they’d blame me if she did. I suppose Mother’s all part of the conspiracy in their eyes. They’re bound to avoid her. It’s a shame, though, Jesse, a crying shame … So what does your mother think of it all?’
‘She went mad. Mother liked Sylvia. She liked her a lot. And Sylvia liked Mother. Matter of fact, Sylvia’s been up to our house since to see her – when I’ve been out, of course, as you might expect.’
‘I bet my name’s mud …’
‘Does that bother you, Lizzie? You know in your own mind as you weren’t to blame.’
‘Your mother never speaks to me as it is. I don’t see why I should appear the worse for being accused of something I haven’t done.’
‘I told Mother as you had nothing to do with it, Lizzie.’
Jack Hardwick was just sweeping sawdust out of his little butcher’s shop as they were walking past and he hailed Jesse. Jesse paused to pass the time of day and Lizzie took advantage of the opportunity to bid him cheerio. As she went indoors the aroma of lamb stew met her. Eve was tending it on the hob, but greeted Lizzie when she entered. Lizzie took off her coat and hung it on a nail at the back of the cellar door. It was time to inform her mother that she had seen Jesse; time to break the news that he and Sylvia were no longer courting; time to explain how it had all come about. And Eve was not so stupid that she could not put two and two together. She would soon conclude that this was the reason she had not seen Tom and Sarah.
Eve was very understanding, however. She accepted that none of the blame was Lizzie’s, but explained why Sylvia would perceive it differently, since she was hardly likely to blame herself. It was in Sylvia’s own interest, Eve said, to remain the injured party.
*
On 4th of March, a Wednesday, Lizzie overheard two men who’d stepped off the West Bromwich tram talking about two dozen miners that were said to be trapped underground at the Hamstead Colliery at Great Barr. The thought of such a catastrophe, if it was true, horrified her. Ben was certain to know about it but, as he was working the night shift, she was unlikely to see him; unless he called for her at dinnertime, as he sometimes did if he rose early from his bed.
Next day she gleaned other snippets from customers and there was no doubt that what she’d heard was true. But, again, Ben failed to meet her at dinnertime to verify it. So she went out to buy a newspaper to try and find out more. It turned out that a fire was raging underground at the colliery, and rescuers were doing all they could to get twenty-eight missing men out.
*
It was the first Friday in March 1908 that Tom Dando decided that much of what he’d been hearing about Jesse Clancey and Lizzie Bishop was supposition. On his way home from work he would call in to see Eve, to try and discover the truth. He was wound up with guilt at not having seen his old friend since New Year. And all because of what Sylvia had told her mother. But what Sylvia had told Sarah did not ring true.
As he trudged through the dark, dilapidated streets of Dudley, he realised that it was almost six years since Isaac Bishop had been killed. He recalled how they used to walk home together chatting like two old biddies. Isaac would talk about whatever came into his head. But Tom was different; he was more reserved and could not make small talk that readily so, even though he did not altogether admire Isaac, he found him easy company because he did most of the talking. And Isaac, Tom was sure, was not aware of the contempt he held for him; he was oblivious to it.
Tom could picture Isaac now, in his baggy cord trousers and the oil-stained jacket to his old suit that was elbowless and rumpled. Round his neck he always wore a grubby muffler that used to be white before it was relegated to working attire, and an old bowler hat that many a time was irreverently used as a bucket to fetch coal from the cellar, when his back was turned. The family, including Tom, often laughed about that.
Six years. Lord, how the time had fled. That fateful day Isaac was killed had been like any other Saturday. Except for the wind. That damned, biting wind had been howling through the narrow streets, snatching the very breath from their mouths as they speculated on Kitchener’s endeavours, and how soon it would be before the Boers finally surrendered. The howling of the wind had prevented Isaac hearing Jack Clancey’s runaway horse and float careering fatally towards him along Brown Street.
Isaac had had other women, but how many, and who they were Tom might never know. Who was to know? Isaac would never admit to anything. Rumours surfaced with the persistence of a cork bobbing up and down in a flooded stream. But Isaac would never divulge what he wanted no one else to know. He never talked about his indiscretions. Of course there had been other women; there must have been. Just as long as Sarah had not fallen prey. That possibility had plagued Tom for a good many years. Sarah, though, was never noted for her beauty; she was plain and on the skinny side; whereas Isaac liked his women well-fleshed and handsome; and the way they used to be attracted to him he could pick and choose. Isaac had loved Eve in his way, but could never remain faithful while other women were prepared to risk his attentions. Women were like a drug. One was never enough; twenty never too many.
Eve had deserved better. She’d always been a fine-looking woman. She was getting old now and deaf as a post since Lizzie was born. Even in her forties, after all those children, she was a handsome-fleshed woman but, as a young woman, she really had been the pick of the bunch.
Tom had always carried a torch for her, yet it was Isaac who’d won her.
When Tom reached the house in Cromwell Street he ceased his daydreaming and walked straight in.
‘Tom!’ Eve exclaimed, putting her hand to her breast. ‘You frightened me to death.’
‘Sorry, my darlin’.’ He bent down and kissed her on the cheek like a long lost brother.
‘Where’s our Lizzie?’
‘Not back from work yet. I’m waiting for her to come before I start boiling these two pieces of cod I’ve bought … Sit you down, Tom, and I’ll make you a cup o’ tea.’ She got up from her chair slowly. Her diabetes, though stabilised, left her feeling tired much of the time. She no longer had the energy she used to have, and moving required effort. ‘Where’ve you been hiding all this time? It’s been weeks since I last clapped eyes on you.’ She nestled the kettle on to the coals and reached for the japanned tea-caddy on the mantel shelf, where it stood next to a vignetted photograph of Isaac aged forty-two, posing formally, wearing a stand-up starched collar and his usual arrogant expression.
Tom did not sit down. ‘Here, I can do that, my flower.’ He reached the caddy for her. ‘Just you tek it easy. How’ve you been keeping?’
‘Oh, well enough.’
‘An’ our Lizzie?’
‘Lizzie’s happy. She’s courting now, Tom. But I suppose you didn’t know.’
‘Who’s she courtin’? Jesse Clancey?’
She put her hand to her ear.
‘I said, is she courtin’ Jesse?’
Eve calmly spooned tea into the brown, enamelled teapot, then set it down on the hob to warm. ‘That’s what I thought you said.’ Their eyes met. ‘What makes you think as she’s a-courting that Jesse? He ain’t the only fish in the sea you know. No, she’s courting a lovely lad from Tividale. A chap called Ben Kite.’
‘Oh? Am yer sure?’
‘Sure? ’Course I’m sure. He’s been here often enough. He was at our Joe’s with her on New Year’s Eve. You must’ve seen him.’
‘No, I don’t remember.’
‘Why? Who says different?’ She put her hand to her ear in anticipation of his reply.
‘Jesse called it off with our Sylvia. You must’ve heard. Sarah thinks it’s Lizzie’s fault.’
‘Well tell Sarah from me as it ain’t Lizzie’s fault. Whatever cock ’n’ bull story Sylvia’s told her, it ain’t Lizzie’s fault, take it from me. I suppose that’s why you ain’t been a-nigh?’
He nodded glumly.
‘Then you ought to be ashamed – especially you, Tom – judging our Lizzie like that. You know very well she wouldn’t do a thing like that – pinching another woman’s chap. Especially somebody she’s close to, like our Sylvia.’
‘It’s as I thought, Eve. Sarah’s got the wrong end o’ the stick, then … but it’s only what our Sylvia’s told her. Don’t fret. I’ll sort it out.’
‘Whether or no, the damage is done.’
‘Well they’ve both always been jealous of Lizzie, you know that as well as I do. It don’t surprise me as either of ’em should grab the first chance to show her up in a bad light.’
‘I know all about that, Tom. But afore they spread wicked gossip they ought to get their story right.’
He put his hand in the pocket of his cord working trousers and fished out a half sovereign. ‘Here, I’ve got a bit o’ widow’s pension I’ve been savin’ up.’ He pressed it on her.
Eve gave it back. ‘I don’t want it. You won’t get round me like that … And you can stop your laughing.’
‘I ain’t trying to get round you, yer saft madam. After everything we’ve been to each other I hardly feel as I have to get round yer. I’m trying to help.’
‘If you’m determined to give it away, then give it our Lizzie this time.’
Tom picked up the oven glove from the table and lifted the boiling kettle from the fire, then filled the teapot.
‘I’ll leave it for our Lizzie, then.’
*
On the Saturday evening when Lizzie left work Ben was waiting for her. She was so glad to see him. It was the first time she’d seen him for nearly a week.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’
He took her hand and they started to walk down High Street towards the Market Place. ‘No fear of that, my flower. I’ve been thinking about you all the while.’
‘Flannel!’
He laughed. ‘I never flannel, Lizzie.’
‘Except when you think I’m vexed at you.’
‘And are you vexed at me?’
She shook her head and smiled.
‘Good. Thinking about you has been the only pleasure I’ve had this week. Have you heard about the fire at the Hamstead Colliery?’
She said of course she had.
‘That bastard of a father of mine is one of the missing men.’
She gasped. ‘Oh, no, Ben. Oh, I’m ever so sorry.’
‘I’m not. That’s why I haven’t been to see you sooner. Looking after Mother and that.’
‘You know, I feared as much. Something told me your father was one of those poor souls trapped, and I didn’t even know what pit he worked at. Your poor mother! How’s she taking it?’
‘Oh, I’d love to know what’s going on inside her head. She’s worried to death – bound to be. But she’s shed ne’er a tear yet.’
‘D’you expect her to?’
‘Maybe not. Not after he’s been such an evil swine. But he is her husband and the father of her sons. But knowing Mother, if she sheds no tears over him she’ll shed ’em all the more over the other poor devils stuck down there. If none survive, just think of all the heartache it’ll cause.’
‘I know. I could cry. Everybody you talk to feels the same.’
High Street was busy with people rushing home. A tram crammed with folk whined towards Top Church, ringing its bell to warn stragglers walking in the horse road to make way. Lizzie and Ben turned into Union Street away from the mainstream, thus avoiding the Market Place and the crowds.
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