by Nancy Carson
‘So how would you reckon to join all these here steel tubes together, Algie? Rivets, or nuts and bolts?’
‘By resistance welding, I believe, sir.’
‘Resistance welding?’ Benjamin Sampson looked bemused. He’d never heard of resistance welding. He was way out of his depth when it came to innovative engineering processes. ‘What the devil is it? What do you know about resistance welding, Algie?’
‘It’s a new way of fusing metal, and I don’t know much about it yet, except it could save riveting pieces together. Anyway, I’m prepared to find out.’
‘Just one of many hazards you’ll come up against, I reckon, Algie,’ Benjamin declared dismissively. ‘You see, to start a business you have to know the ins and outs of the business you want to go into, like I say. It helps to know the manufacturing processes involved, like this here resistance welding you’m on about, for instance. But before you can even think about any of that, you have to have some money in place, I would’ve thought. And that could run into hundreds and most likely thousands, especially in manufacturing. Have you considered the investment you’d have to make in machinery, for a start?’
‘Well … I have sort of considered it. I should have to go to a bank, I reckon.’
‘Cap in hand at that. If you’ve got enough behind you – property, I mean – they might loan you something on the strength of it,’ Mr Sampson said, safely assuming that the presence of any property behind Algie was highly improbable. ‘Then you’d need suitable premises and trained workers. Above all, you need customers. You need a network of wholesale and retail outlets to sell things like bikes – same as for bedsteads and fenders. Have you thought about all this, Algie?’
‘Well … no, not all of it, Mr Sampson,’ Algie admitted reluctantly. ‘Not yet. I’ve only considered the manufacturing part. How to make them.’
Benjamin Sampson afforded Algie a smile as he rose from the chair his more enterprising father used to sit in. ‘I reckon you’ve got a lot more thinking to do afore you could ever start such a project.’ He walked round his desk towards the door, anxious to be rid of Algie Stokes and his crackpot idea which, in any case, was way above the lad’s station. ‘It would be too big an undertaking,’ he went on. ‘Mind you, the idea has got some merit,’ he added patronisingly. ‘It’s just a pity that a stream can’t rise above its source …’
Kate Stokes took to seeing the doctor’s son, Clarence Froggatt, two or three times a week. He couldn’t use his father’s conveyance every night they met. He was always careful, however, to see her home safely, dogcart or no, dutifully walking her to the lock-keeper’s cottage and trudging back alone in the darkness to his family’s home at Holly Hall, which lay between Brierley Hill and Dudley. Kate enchanted Clarence. She was ravishingly easy on the eye, and affable. Despite her lowly origins she made the best of herself, and was never out of her depth, even with those Meese girls who had befriended her. Of course, he had no plans to take her home to meet his family yet; he wasn’t quite sure how they might react to his befriending the daughter of a humble lock-keeper, however ladylike, intelligent, and pretty, for outward demeanour was not everything. There had to be some substance, and preferably a little ancestry besides, to render her entirely suitable. But, for the time being, her big brown eyes and lovely face captivated him.
Something that surprised him, for a girl from such an inferior background, was her obvious innocence. The working class were not noted for it. Several times he had engineered situations when they were alone so that he could take advantage of her, but she allowed no hanky-panky, spiritedly refusing anything more than kisses. This was to her credit. The fact that she was not easy was yet another fine characteristic that enhanced her worthiness. However, she did kiss rather nicely, an attribute that evidently came naturally to her, despite her obvious lack of actual experience in the kissing department.
Clarence’s lively imagination began to run riot when dress rehearsals for The Forest Princess began. Kate’s outfit consisted of a short tunic – considerably shorter than her usual skirts – sewn together from pieces of chamois leather. Neither could she realistically wear stockings, and she ran across the imaginary stage of the Drill Hall in bare feet, flashing two well-turned ankles and pale, shapely calves. Kate was astutely aware that the eyes of all the men would be upon her and she revelled in the knowledge. When she squatted, as any forest princess was wont to do, she revealed, without turning a hair, tantalising glimpses of smooth, pale thighs. These same tantalising limbs were destined to be browned with stage paint for the actual performances. If only Kate would allow him personal access to those alluring nether regions. If only she would allow him to apply that stage paint … The thought troubled him, particularly at bedtime.
His imagination was working overtime at one such rehearsal, the week before Harriet Meese’s twenty-first birthday party, to which they had both been invited, and his lust was overflowing. He watched her, mesmerised, in one particular scene. She was sitting on the floor, her hands clasped round her knees revealing besotting tracts of alabaster thighs as she stared into an imaginary camp fire. Her mouth was solemn but pouting as she listened to the pontificating of Powhatan, but so kissable, her eyes exotic pools of darkness, deep and inscrutable. She had never, Clarence thought, looked so ravishing.
That evening he walked her home, and stood pressed against her, out of public sight at the side of the lock-keeper’s cottage. The image of her exposed, alabaster thighs was still fresh in his mind. It was vital to confess how much he wanted her before he imploded with sexual frustration. There was, after all, just a chance that she might take pity on him and allow him just to touch her somewhere very private for a second or two. That, at least, would be a start.
‘You must surely know by now, Kate, how much I want you,’ he breathed.
She laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, Clarry.’
She looked so amazingly pretty by moonlight. Her eyes were pools of dark, sweet sherry, her smooth, rounded cheeks so sensually soft against his. If only he could overcome her innate propriety.
‘Why won’t you let go?’ he asked intently.
‘ ’Cause it ain’t right,’ she answered, looking him straight in the eye. Then, more kittenishly, she said, ‘Such goings on are for the marriage bed, Clarry. Not before.’
He sighed, a profound sigh. ‘You must understand that I respect your opinion on the matter, Kate, my love, but I want you to understand how I feel … that it’s driving me mad.’ He squeezed her tight around her waist.
‘Clarry!’ she protested, but with a giggle. ‘What are you doing? You’ll squeege the life out o’ me.’
‘We could have such lovely times together,’ he murmured, his breath warm in her ear, sending delicious shivers up and down her spine, shivers that she had to disguise at all costs. ‘And nobody else would know. It’d be our secret.’
‘But you’re asking me to go against all my principles,’ she answered, feigning mild indignation that he should esteem her so little.
‘It’s my opinion that the pleasure you would derive would far outweigh any feelings of guilt you might at first encounter.’
‘You daft thing! And what if you was to put me in the family way?’ She gave him a hug to demonstrate that she was not trying to drive him away, that maybe she actually wanted to be persuaded, calculated to ensure his continued interest.
‘I’m sure my father has some potion somewhere that could quickly remedy that.’
It was not the sort of remedy she’d anticipated and it narked her. ‘That wouldn’t be very nice, Clarry.’
‘But it might be expedient under such circumstances.’
‘You’re not likely to put me in such circumstances,’ she said provocatively. ‘I told you, such things are reserved for the marriage bed. Then everybody expects you to get pregnant, and thinks there’s something amiss if you don’t within the first six months.’
‘Well, it would be wonderful now,’ he sighed. ‘If only you were willing.�
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‘I reckon it’s unfair to expect me to do that sort of thing, Clarry,’ she said with a distinct air of propriety. ‘I mean, there’s no certainty as you and me would ever wed. I mean, I’m ever likely to meet some other chap, really well-to-do and that. Can you imagine what it’d be like for me if I had to confess as I wasn’t a virgin? Have you thought about that?’
‘I confess, I hadn’t.’
‘See? You ain’t really thinking about my feelings, Clarry. Only your own.’
‘Of course,’ he said smoothly. ‘I understand what you say. But what if it looked as if we might marry eventually?… You and me …’
‘Might wouldn’t be enough,’ she asserted, lowering her lids with an innocence that was entirely convincing. ‘A certainty might make a difference. But in any case, it’s way too soon to be thinking of such things …’
He gave her a hug and a kiss on the lips, and she responded deliciously. ‘Oh, Katie, you’re such a sweet, innocent and very sensible girl. There’s no wonder I want you so much. There’s no wonder I want to be the first and only.’
They kissed again, ardently, lingeringly. His hands wandered over her clad body, only to be rebuffed.
Underneath all this pretence she was smouldering. He only had to touch her … If only he knew. If only he had the remotest idea how much she craved physical love, to feel him moving inside her, he would be shocked to the core. But she could not allow him to know – at least, not without a convincing show of virtuous resistance first.
‘I’m working myself up into a lather again,’ he whispered with a rueful grin. ‘I’d better go before I’m unable to control myself.’
She gently pushed him away with decorous propriety then, just to confuse him more, gave him another sympathetic hug, another passionate kiss.
‘Don’t forget the party Saturday,’ he said. ‘Do you still want to go?’
‘Yes, course I do,’ she answered with playful appeal. ‘I’ve had a lovely frock made just for it. I don’t want to be outdone by them Meese girls, ’cause they always have such lovely frocks.’
‘I’ll have the dogcart. Mother and Father are away for the weekend at my aunt’s in Nottingham. So I’ll collect you about eight. I presume you remembered to ask your mother and father for permission to be back home late?’
‘Yes, I told you. I think you should thank them, and settle their minds that I’ll be in good hands.’
‘Oh, you’ll be in very good hands, Katie, my love.’ He caught her smile, angelic in the moonlight. ‘Goodnight, Kate. Sweet dreams …’
From the gate she watched him cross the lock in the moonlight. He turned and waved as he walked up the towpath opposite, and she could just about discern him picked out by the moon’s silvery lambency as he ascended the road bridge till he was out of sight. Oh, if only he knew … If only he had the slightest inkling of what she had to endure to maintain this odious but necessary pretence of virtue. But how long could she keep it up, when at every opportunity he was assaulting her agonisingly potent feminine desires? She had to appear chaste. It was vital. He must not know of her past experiences. If she allowed herself to be seduced easily and it became known, she would be shunned by the people she now mixed with. Especially with no prospect of marriage in view, no engagement. And what if she did fall pregnant?
She turned from the gate to go inside.
‘Kate!’
She stopped and turned round, startled at hearing a man’s whispered call coming from the towpath. But it was a familiar call.
She went back to the gate and peered over it. ‘Who is it?’ She knew very well who it was, and her heart lurched.
‘Me. Reggie.’
‘Reggie?’ At once she pretended to be indifferent. ‘What d’you want?’
‘I came to see you. I ain’t seen you for ages. And we’ve got some unfinished business, you and me.’
‘Where are you moored?’ she said, sounding more amenable.
‘Down there in the basin by the dock. Come a walk with me, Kate.’
‘But it’s time I went in.’ This offering excuses on moral grounds was getting to be a tedious habit.
‘Just a short walk, eh? Up the cut a bit.’
She tiptoed over the lock gates towards him, the winding mechanism catching at her skirt. They headed under the road bridge and walked on the towpath around the basin at the Bottle and Glass.
‘I’ve missed you, Kate,’ he said as they sauntered along in the moonlight. ‘But it looks as if you’m a-courtin’ nowadays, eh?’
‘You saw me with Clarry, then?’
‘Clarry? That’s a dandy name.’
She didn’t answer.
‘Decent respectable chap, is he?’
‘Very,’ she affirmed. ‘The son of a doctor.’
‘Handy, eh?’ He regarded her knowingly. ‘Does he keep you happy?’
She knew exactly what he meant. ‘We don’t … do that. I have to be a decent, respectable girl for a doctor’s son.’ She grinned at the irony of it, while Reggie guffawed.
‘More fool him, eh?’
‘Yes, I reckon. More fool him.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Course not.’
He took her hand, sure of his standing now. There was a patch of spare ground, between two old properties. He led her through a gap in the hedge, and sat down.
‘Come and sit by me.’
‘I ain’t gunna do that,’ she said, but without any conviction whatsoever. ‘I don’t want to …’
‘You?’ He laughed, almost mockingly. ‘If I know you, you’m dying for it. ’Specially after you’ve been spooning with him, with bugger all at the end of it. Sit down.’
She sat beside him. He raised his hand and tickled the back of her neck, then drew her to him. She submitted to his caress and he kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue probing for hers. Why should she resist? He’d shaved and his skin felt smooth, he’d made some effort with himself and seemed more presentable than usual. She was aching for some honest, physical contact; not the polite, apologetic fumblings of the doctor’s son. She was tingling, itching in all the right places, and those places needed attention. She’d had enough of pretence, of dancing around her emotions with respectful words and restrained innuendo, denying her natural desires, however wanton. She needed some good, hard, unpretentious loving. She needed to be herself; her burning, carnal needs satisfied. She would get that satisfaction with Reggie, no holds barred, no frills and no strings attached. And no condemnation either.
He shoved her back so that she was lying in the rough grass. He took a handful of skirt and pulled the hem up to her waist, then knelt between her legs and untied the ribbon of her white drawers. She raised her backside and he yanked them down, casting them aside, a double pennant of surrender lying limp and pale on a tuft of grass beside them. His hand gently stroked her inner thigh, his goal that delectably wet place he hankered for.
‘By the living Christ, you’m dying for it,’ he whispered when he felt her.
‘You don’t say. Get on with it.’
He undid his fly and the thing sprang out like some pale serpent, stiff with rigor mortis, except that it was far from dead. ‘Here, cop this,’ he muttered. He rolled onto her and buried himself inside her without further ceremony.
‘Oh … Jesus!’ she gasped, her gratitude audible in her shuddering sigh.
Although she was wily enough to use a douche, it occurred to Kate that if she had the gross misfortune to be pregnant anyway as a result of that encounter with Reggie, she would be regarded as one of the simple-minded and corrupt women that litter society. She could never entertain the thought of marrying Reggie and spending the rest of her days being towed up and down the Midlands’ canal system with his disgusting family, in that floating squalor they called a home. Her mother and father, too, would be likely to disown her rather than tolerate derisive whispering behind cupped hands, the finger pointing, and the scorn that would be poured on them for harbouring a wanton daug
hter, for wanton is how she would be perceived. She would have no alternative but to seek refuge in the workhouse among the poor sick, the crippled, the insane. Her only redemption might be taking to the streets and selling herself, but even that would be only short-lived, for she would inevitably end up back in the workhouse, diseased and ruined. Gone would be her dream of willing acceptance by her respectable peers, such as those she had befriended in the Amateur Dramatics Society. Gone would be all possibility of a good marriage to a worthy and respectable gentleman …
Maybe she should provide herself with some insurance against such an eventuality.
On the Saturday, during her dinner break from serving cakes, bread and pastries, Kate scoured Brierley Hill High Street for a pair of the finest silk stockings and the flimsiest undergarments. They cost her more than she could reasonably afford, especially since she had already forked out for an expensive dress, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that they would all turn out to be sound investments. After all, Clarry’s folks would be away from home, he’d said …
At seven, when it was dark, she went upstairs and began to get ready. She sponged her body at the washstand in her bedroom and put on her new flimsier underclothes. There was not a lot she could wear beneath the new dress she’d bought, designed as it was to flaunt her bare shoulders and display a goodly amount of cleavage. She pulled on her stockings and enjoyed the feel of cool silk against her skin. Then she did her hair, piling it up, allowing dark brown wisps to fall waywardly in front of her ears, others to fall in a girlish fringe across her brow. She put on the dress. Some impressive contortions were needed to fasten it, but she was lissom enough to manage it without calling for her mother’s help. By the light of the oil lamp she looked at herself in the long Cheval mirror and was satisfied that whoever saw her that night would turn round for a second glance … and maybe even a third.
Clarence called at eight, as he had promised he would. He thanked Mr and Mrs Stokes for bestowing their permission on Kate to return late, assuring them that he would look after their precious daughter and return her safely.
