by Anne Bennett
Lizzie loved to dance and she was so looking forward to the social. Whatever Tressa said, you weren’t promising a man your hand in marriage for doing the rounds in a quick step or a waltz and she was determined to enjoy herself. The first thing to do was to find something suitable to wear.
The Bull Ring was the place where bargains were to be had, but in a way Lizzie hated going there. She knew of the slump and the men without work and she’d even seen some of the hunger marches go down Colmore Row. But there was no evidence of deprivation in the hotel, in the food served and facilities offered, for the people who came were, in the main, well-to-do and successful, so Lizzie and Tressa were inured from the poverty.
They weren’t aware of the teeming back-to-back houses not far from the city centre where families lived in a constant state of hunger, cold and deprivation, pawning all belonging to them to prevent them all starving to death. It was only in the Bull Ring that these things were brought home to them. Lizzie was sorry for the shambling women she saw there, who were sometimes barefoot, which had shocked both girls at first. They often had a squalling baby tied to them with a shawl and a clutch of filthy, ragged, barefoot children with pinched-in faces, and arms and legs like sticks. They would dart like monkeys to snatch at anything falling off the barrows before the coster could pick it up. The barrow boys would shout at them and often raise a fist, but they were too hungry to take any notice and it tore at Lizzie’s heart to see them.
Tressa laughed at her softness when one day she gave a group of children her saved pennies to buy a pie each so that they could have a full belly for once. ‘They needed it more than me,’ she said in defence when Tressa chided her. ‘That eldest boy was about the same age as Johnnie. Think of the difference.’
‘And what of the razor blades, shoelaces and hairgrips you buy nearly every time you’re let out alone? We have enough in now to stock a shop.’
‘Ah, Tressa, doesn’t it break your heart to see those poor men with trays about their necks, and many of them blinded or with missing limbs?’ Lizzie said. ‘They fought in the war-to-end-all-wars and now have no job. They’re like debris, thrown out on the scrap heap. I have to buy from them.’
There were always more of the poor about on a Saturday, hoping to snatch a bargain, but that afternoon, two weeks before the dance, the girls were on a mission. Tressa wouldn’t let Lizzie look to left or right and led her straight down the cobbled streets from High Street into the melee and clamour of people and the costers shouting their wares above the noise.
The place had a buzz all of its own and there was always something to see, but that day there was no time to stand and stare. They skirted the flower sellers, around the statue of Nelson, shaking their heads at the proferred bunches and the market hall where the old lags were with their trays. The old lady stood outside Woolworths as she did every day, shouting her wares: ‘Carriers, handy carriers,’ and they passed Mountford’s, where the smell of the meat turning on a spit in the window would make your mouth water.
The rag market was where they were making for, and when they entered it, it still had the familiar whiff of fish lingering, for it sold fish in the week. But now, goods of every description were laid out on carpets or rugs on the floor. Lizzie got a bronze satin dress with lace underskirts: the bodice was decorated with beads and fancy buttons and cut to show the merest hint of cleavage. She even picked up a pair of bronze shoes and a brown fur jacket at the second-hand stall and was well-pleased.
Tressa was equally as happy with her dress of dark red velvet bound in black, for with her blonde hair she suited red. The smart black jacket fitted like a glove and the two-tone shoes were a find. If they pinched a bit, so what. She just had to have them. They made the outfit. The girls were well satisfied and as Tressa said when they dressed up in their room later and spun around before the mirror, ‘Don’t the pair of us look just terrific?’
The days seemed to drag, but eventually it was time to lift the dresses down from the picture rail where they’d been covered by a sheet, and the two dressed in their finery. Even Lizzie, never one to give herself airs and unaware of her beauty, was stunned. The skirt, which reached the floor, rustled delicately when she walked; and the beads on the bodice, shimmering in the light, brought out the beauty of her creamy skin and made her eyes dance and sparkle. Tressa’s gown was pretty enough and she did look beautiful in it, but it was Lizzie’s that drew the exclamation from Pat and Betty, who’d demanded to see them both before they set off.
CHAPTER TWO
Lizzie and Tressa stood in the doorway and peeped in. Streamers interspersed with balloons were draped around the walls and hung from the ceiling, while around the edge of the room were small tables. Each one had a lighted candle in a gold-coloured candlestick and it gave a magical feel to the night. At one end of the hall was a band setting up with their instruments, and, to the side, a more than adequate bar.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Lizzie said, as the band struck up the first tune of the night, which was a slow foxtrot to the tune of ‘My Foolish Heart’.
‘Aye,’ Tressa agreed, taking a seat at one of the tables. ‘But I hope we are asked up by someone and before too long. Wouldn’t it be a desperate situation altogether if we were left sitting at the table by ourselves all night? I’d die of shame.’
There was little danger of it for the girls’ entrance had caused quite a stir, and both were asked up almost immediately. As Lizzie spun around the room with one partner after another she began to thoroughly enjoy herself.
They discovered punch early on in the evening and, thinking it to be non-alcoholic, drank plenty of it. Unbeknownst to them, they had been watched for about an hour by two men at the bar, who smiled to themselves and then to each other as they saw the girls fill up their glasses once more and go back to the table for a well-earned rest.
As soon as the men detached themselves from the bar and began to move towards them, the movement drew Tressa’s eyes. ‘There’s two gorgeous fellows heading our way,’ she whispered to Lizzie. ‘Absolutely terrific, so they are.’ And then, as Lizzie was to turn her head for a swift peep, Tressa hissed, ‘Don’t look around. They’ll know we’re talking about them.’
Have we to be totally unaware of the two men walking towards us so deliberately, Lizzie thought. It seemed that way, and they’d reached the table before Tressa appeared to see them and Lizzie had her first good look. Both were tall, she noticed, and one had sandy-coloured hair and grey eyes and his mouth was wide and full, his whole attitude one of laughter and fun. His friend, though, was a different kettle of fish altogether, his countenance graver and his attitude altogether more serious. His hair was nearly black, his nose long and mouth thin, but his eyebrows seemed so prominent they almost hid his deep brown eyes.
Lizzie didn’t take to him at all, but the other man seemed to have eyes only for Tressa. They asked if they might sit for a while and talk to the ladies, and as Tressa was more than willing there was little Lizzie could say. They introduced themselves: the one enamoured with Tressa was Mike Malone, and the other one, Steve Gillespie. Lizzie sat and sipped her punch and listened to them talking. Both came from a place called Edgbaston, they said, only a short distance away, where they lived just a street apart. They’d been friends since their first day at St Catherine’s School and both were in full-time work, in the brass industry. ‘We’re lucky,’ Mike said. ‘And we know it, with so many unemployed now.’
They heard of Mike’s two elder sisters, now married and away from home. ‘I’m the youngest too,’ Tressa said. ‘Lizzie says I’m spoilt.’
Lizzie opened her mouth to say something, but Mike forestalled her. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Such a beautiful girl cannot be spoilt. And I love your accents.’
‘Your names sound Irish too,’ Tressa said. ‘But your accents don’t.’
‘Our dads were both from Ireland,’ Steve answered. ‘But we’ve been brought up here. My father has no love of Ireland, for he had a hard time there aft
er he was orphaned at the age of seven.’
Lizzie would have asked more questions, but Mike would not allow it. He forbade all talk of sadness and fetched more punch for the girls and a Guinness each for themselves, before leading Tressa onto the dance floor.
Steve watched Lizzie’s eyes as they followed Tressa and he said, ‘You don’t want to dance, do you?’
It was said ungraciously and Lizzie didn’t want to dance, at least not with Steve. She didn’t even want to sit with him. He unnerved her. She wanted to say she needed the Ladies, but she could hardly skulk there all night, and anyway, Tressa would root her out and be furious with her. So she said, ‘No, no, it’s all right.’
‘Your glass is empty, I’ll get us a refill,’ Steve said, and Lizzie was surprised. She couldn’t remember drinking the punch at all, but she took a big drink of the glass that Steve brought her as he talked of his father, who’d fought in the Great War as a volunteer. ‘He was injured, my father,’ Steve went on. ‘Had his leg shot to pieces and it probably saved his life.’
‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’ Lizzie asked. Her voice, she realised, was nothing like her own. It was thicker and the words were harder to form.
‘Yeah, one brother, Neil. He’s five years younger than me. I’m the golden boy, though, even above my father in my mother’s eyes.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh yes. If I told my mother to jump, she’d just say, “How high”?’
‘I pity the girl you marry then.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Steve said, and his hand caressing Lizzie’s made her insides jump about uncomfortably. ‘I have good points too, Lizzie Clooney,’ he said in a husky whisper. ‘And many ways of making a woman very happy.’
Lizzie withdrew her hand and Steve laughed, and Lizzie drained her glass of punch, for she didn’t know how to react. But when he took her by the hand and led her onto the dance floor, she went willingly. Even when she felt his hands slide across her bottom as they waltzed to ‘The Blue Danube’, and his lips nuzzle her neck in the darker corners of the room, she found she didn’t mind at all. In fact, she liked it.
Tressa was happy to dance with Mike for the rest of the night, and Lizzie thought dancing with Steve wasn’t so bad and better than sitting on her own at the table. At some stage, as the night wore on, Lizzie was brought more punch, and after she’d drunk it she found it hard to stand up, let alone dance, and Steve took her outside. ‘You’ll feel better with some air,’ he said.
Lizzie hoped she would. She felt distinctly odd. Her legs refused to obey her and so did her mouth. She wondered what was the matter with her and she was glad of Steve’s arm around her.
Steve Gillespie had been attracted by the young girl since he’d first spotted her, and though he’d seen that Mike had been smitten with her cousin, she was nothing besides Lizzie. Lizzie was a real beauty.
Steve also knew the girl was virtually untouched, probably never even been kissed properly. She was now very drunk and he could guess that it was probably the first time she’d been in this state too, and she would be putty in his hands, if he so desired it. However, he didn’t want to scare her off altogether and so he decided he would proceed very slowly. So, when they reached the darkened entry, he kissed her, but gently on the lips and held her close.
Lizzie responded to Steve’s kisses. It was her first sexual experience and she felt faint urges tugging at her. Steve wasn’t used to such innocence and usually he was out for all he could get with a woman, but he felt an attraction for Lizzie that he had never experienced before. He felt a thrill of excitement when Lizzie groaned as he kissed her neck and throat. He kissed her more passionately, though he didn’t prise her lips open with his tongue, feeling that would frighten her. He felt the kirby grips she’d fashioned her hair up with fall to the floor as he held her head, and then he ran his fingers through the freed locks and buried his face in Lizzie’s neck. ‘Oh, Lizzie.’
The name, whispered so huskily, awakened her a little more and, greatly daring, she put her hands either side of Steve’s face and kissed him hungrily. She’d never had a real kiss, but for all that she was excited by feelings she didn’t understand, and when Steve ran his hands over her she didn’t object.
Steve was surprised, and supposed it was the alcohol she’d consumed that was making her so compliant. When she continued to kiss him and pressed her body close against his, he could not resist trying to go further. With his arm around her, he cupped one of her breasts, and when Lizzie didn’t push him away he felt the heat of desire flow through his body and his fumbling fingers began unbuttoning the bodice of her gown.
Lizzie, even in her hazy state, reacted strongly. ‘Stop it, Steve! What are you doing?’
‘Showing you how much I care for you,’ Steve said huskily, tightening his arms around her. ‘Ah, come on, Lizzie? Don’t stop now.’
‘No,’ Lizzie said, pulling away from him. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’ She began to do up the buttons, unaware in her tipsy state that she’d clumsily buttoned herself up wrongly and left two buttons undone entirely. ‘I want to go back in now,’ she said, and Steve didn’t protest. He knew he had gone too far and too fast, and he also knew if he wanted to have a chance to see this beautiful girl again he would have to proceed slowly.
Tressa, coming into the hall, intending to look for Lizzie, saw them come in. When she saw the state of Lizzie, her flushed cheeks, messed-up hair falling about her face and unbuttoned bodice, she thought Lizzie and Steve had been up to far more than they had. She was mightily glad Mike hadn’t come with her and there were no other witness either, and also glad the Ladies led off the hall. With a glare at Steve that should have rendered him senseless on the floor, she shoved Lizzie into the Ladies to try and repair the damage.
‘You bloody little fool,’ she admonished as she wiped Lizzie’s face with her handkerchief, which she had dampened under the tap. ‘You haven’t the sense you were born with. Why did you agree to go outside with him in the first place?’
Lizzie looked at Tressa with an inane grin on her face. For the life of her she couldn’t understand why Tressa was cross. ‘For air,’ she said. ‘I was hot.’
‘Hot, my foot,’ Tressa cried. ‘The state you’re in, Steve Gillespie could have taken advantage of you.’ Might have taken advantage of you, she thought, but didn’t put in to words.
But what she said got through to Lizzie’s befuddled brain. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m a good girl, Tressa.’
‘Aye, course you are,’ Tressa said sarcastically, buttoning Lizzie’s bodice up correctly. ‘Turn round and I’ll see if I can do something with this hair, and then I’m getting you a big glass of water and you are going to drink it. That punch is alcoholic, you know; Mike told me. I took to orange afterwards.’ Lizzie heard the words but they didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did, and she just grinned again. Tressa sighed and said wearily, ‘What’s the use of talking to you? Turn around and let me see if I can work some sort of miracle.’
There were not enough grips to put Lizzie’s hair up the way it had been and Tressa was forced to leave some of it loose, but it looked good even so. When Lizzie had obediently drunk the water, Tressa, surveying her, thought she’d done the best she could in the circumstances and led her back onto the dance floor.
Steve was sitting with Mike, and when he saw Lizzie framed for a moment in the doorway he thought he’d never seen anyone lovelier. Her face was no longer flushed and she had regained her creamy complexion, and her hair, though tidy, was now allowing waves to fall down her back and tendrils of it framed her face. He stepped forward quickly to claim Lizzie before someone else did, a large glass of punch in his hand. She lifted it to her lips, her eyes met Tressa’s, who raised hers to the ceiling as Lizzie took a large gulp.
The next morning, when Lizzie opened her eyes because Tressa was shaking her, she felt as if she’d fallen into the pit of Hell. A thousand hammers were beating in her head, her eyes throbbed and she felt sick. ‘Lea
ve me alone.’
‘No way will I,’ Tressa said. She was glad the other two girls that shared the room were not there, for they were on breakfasts this morning while she and Lizzie weren’t on duty until six, and looking at her cousin’s comatose frame she was glad of it.
Tressa expected Lizzie to feel bad. Mike had said she’d have a bad head when she woke in the morning. They’d had to nearly carry her home and she’d almost tumbled down the stairs as Tressa forced her up them, her arm around Lizzie’s waist; and now she lay like one dead, while Tressa’s insides were filled with delicious excitement at seeing Mike again, and she was letting no drunken cousin spoil it. ‘Get up!’ she commanded, giving Lizzie a shove.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can and you bloody will. We’ve got Mass at eleven o’clock and the fellows are going to meet us outside.’
‘The fellows! What fellows?’
‘God, Lizzie! What fellows do you think? Mike and Steve, of course. We arranged it yesterday. Don’t you remember?’
Lizzie shook her head, but gently. She remembered very little, but she recalled her earlier feelings about Steve. ‘I don’t think I like Steve much,’ she said.
Tressa looked at her scornfully. ‘Oh aye,’ she retorted sarcastically. ‘Is that why you danced with him all night and went out with him into the night, arm in arm, and came back with your hair looking like you’d been pulled through a hedge backwards and your bodice nearly unbuttoned?’
Lizzie sat bolt upright in the bed, putting her hands to her aching head as she did so and fighting nausea. ‘I didn’t,’ she breathed, horrified. ‘Say I didn’t?’
‘You did. You were all over him and his hands were everywhere when you danced and you never said a word. You couldn’t get close enough. Even when we sat down, you sat on Steve’s knee and nuzzled into his neck. It was embarrassing. Do you remember none of it?’
