Nancy Carson - The Factory Girl

Clara nodded. ‘She did her best to rear them, but she was poverty-stricken. Anyway, she fell ill and, when they were just two years old, Bessie died of consumption, poor soul.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible. All because the father denied all knowledge…What a rogue! So what happened to the poor little lads?’

‘As it happens, Henzey, they were all right. My grandfather, being well respected in Methodist circles, found a nice family who took in one of them. Trouble was, they were poor, and they could only afford to take the one.’

‘You mean they were split up?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘So what happened to the other?’ Henzey’s eyes were misty with tears by this time. She was deeply touched by the story.

Clara shook her head. ‘We never knew for sure. My grandfather took him away, but he wouldn’t say where, though we’d got a good idea. He reckoned he was sworn to secrecy. He just said the boy was going to be all right. My mother was certain sure he took him back to the house Bessie came from – to the boys’ father – to make him face up to his responsibilities. Bessie had told him who the father was. But I never heard anything else about either of those two children since. Sad isn’t it?’

‘When did all this happen, Clara?’ Henzey asked. ‘How long ago?’

‘Well I was only a child meself when Bessie died. It’d be about 1902. Those twins would be about twenty-eight now if they’re still alive.’

‘Grown men. It’d be interesting to know what happened to them, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’d dearly love to know…But listen, I’ve told you girls this story to point out what can happen if you’re easy. Men will always take what they want, and then, when they’ve took it, they’ll be off like a shot unless you handle them right. Keep your man interested by being just a little bit elusive. That’s what I always say. Before you give yourself to a man be sure he’s in love with you. Or better still, wait till you’re married.’

‘“Elusive”?’ Edie queried. ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s that mean?’

‘It means, be a bit mysterious, Edie. Don’t be at his beck and call. Let him worry about what you’re up to. Let him think you’re up to no good sometimes when he’s not around. Give him a hint occasionally that you might be interested in somebody else. It works wonders.’

Henzey glanced from one to the other, trying to gauge the girls’ reaction to Clara’s sage advice. ‘You do seem to know a lot about men, Clara,’ she said. ‘I wish I did.’

‘I’m thirty, Henzey, and I know what I’m talking about. I’m not sixteen, like you. I’ve been married and I enjoyed married life, and no man will ever replace my husband. I loved him dearly – I still do.’

‘Are you saying we’re all too young to be messing about with chaps, Clara?’

‘No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying you’re too young to be doing what you do in the marriage bed, but see as many young men as you like. Have some fun, but save yourself for one.’

Henzey said reverently, ‘Oh, Clara, you are sensible.’

‘I try to be. But what about you, Henzey? Have you seen that Jack Harper since you told him you were going to that party?’

‘I’ve seen him, but only from a distance. He doesn’t speak to me now…Has he been in the shop?’

‘Why? You missin’ ’im?’

Henzey nodded glumly. It had been more than two weeks since that party; two weeks during which she had all but forgotten Billy Witts, dismissed Andrew Dewsbury and his petulant sister from her mind, and started thinking again about Jack Harper.

‘No, we ain’t seen ’im,’ Rosie said. ‘I’d ’ave noticed ’im. I think ’e’s bostin’. I think you’m daft, Henzey, for givin’ ’im up, just for the chance o’ goin’ to a party with some lads you didn’t even know. Just ’cause they was well-to-do.’

‘Yes, yer know what well-to-do lads’m like,’ Edie agreed. ‘Just remember the story Clara just told we about that Bessie and her twins. He was a well-to-do chap what got ’er into trouble.’

Clara bit into an apple, then said, ‘The tea’ll be cold. Who’s going to pour it?’

‘I’ll do it,’ Henzey volunteered, and got up from the charabanc seat.

Henzey had made a sad error of judgement in allowing Andrew Dewsbury to take her to his party. It had been as much to the detriment of Jack Harper too, her regular escort, as to herself. Jack had always mooned over her like a lovesick fool, but she’d been prepared to put up with that, since he was generally pleasant company. Maybe she should make the first move towards reconciliation. His absence was feeding her guilt, and her guilt was clouding her true emotions, like disturbed sediment muddies clear water. She was starting to believe she was in love with Jack. Her mood was cheerless, disconsolate. Evidently he was upset with her, and she could hardly blame him. And she missed him more than she thought possible.

‘Yo’ could always goo round to the Midland Shoe shop and try and catch ’is eye,’ Edie suggested. ‘He wun’t ignore yer there. Specially if ’e thought yo’ was gunna buy a pair o’ shoes off ’im.’

The others laughed at that.

‘Never,’ Clara said decisively. ‘Never run after a man, no matter how much your heart might be aching. Promise me you won’t, Henzey.’

Henzey shrugged, and handed the first cup of tea to Clara. ‘I just think it’s my fault. I think I was rotten to him…I think the first move should come from me.’ She turned away again to serve the second cup to Rosie.

‘I’m sure he’ll get over it. In no time he’ll…’

The door opened unexpectedly, and Arnold Jenning’s face appeared. ‘Henzey, there’s a chap outside askin’ to see yer.’

At once her heart jumped and she coloured up. ‘To see me?’ It was too much to hope that it might be Jack.

‘Talk of the devil…’ Clara said confidently.

‘A stroke o’ luck, if yer like,’ Rosie affirmed. ‘Save yer runnin’ after ’im, eh?’

Henzey put her cup of tea down on the draining board and stood up, smoothing the creases out of her apron. She flicked her hair out of her eyes, and smiled with anticipation at the others, her heart pounding now. It was a God-sent opportunity to make it up with Jack, just as they’d been discussing. She walked through the door and through the stockroom, her heart in her throat. When she entered the shop Phoebe Mantle, one of the other girls, nudged her.

‘Here, Henzey. That’s the chap out there.’ She pointed outside to a man who had his back towards them. ‘He came in askin’ for yer. He said he’d wait outside. He’s a bit of all right, I can tell yer. Who is he?’

Henzey looked up and peered through the window. ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. Her feelings a mixture of apprehension and delight, she went to the door, suddenly conscious of her working clothes.

In the street the cold October air clung to her. It was a grey day and threatened rain. The red brick façades of the buildings around her looked shabby under their film of grime, the legacy of more than a century’s emissions from the foundries, forges and ironworks. People were ambling along unhurriedly from store to store, gazing covetously into shop windows; some stood and gossiped; a woman tugged impatiently at the hand of a grizzling, unwilling child, and scolded him.

‘Fancy seeing you,’ Henzey said, smiling. ‘This is a surprise. What brings you here?’

Billy Witts scratched the back of his neck casually. ‘Just passing. I thought I’d call to see if you were all right after your spot of bother at the party the other week.’ His voice was rich and mellow, and his easy drawl, neither broad, nor particularly cultured, sounded attractive to Henzey.