Putting on the Style

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I wanted you to know that you’re still my girl. I want you to come back to the market when you leave here.’

  ‘I mean to. With luck I’ll be there by Easter. I hoped that maybe your mam would let me have my old job back?’

  ‘Course she will, and you must live with us. She won’t mind. We have to put up with her boy friends often enough,’ Kenny said, his voice turning cold for a second. ‘We’ll get married as soon as you turn eighteen, if your mam will let you.’

  Dena gave a bitter little laugh. ‘My mam doesn’t care what I do, but I’m not sure I’m ready for marriage yet, Kenny, or all that domestic, housewife stuff. There’s no rush, is there? I mean, you don’t have to marry me just because I’ve nowhere to live.’

  ‘I love you, don’t I? And I’ll show you just how much.’ He pushed her down and Dena thought that he was going to kiss her some more but her school raincoat fell open and he noticed that her nightie, which she hadn’t bothered to remove, was drooping down below her skirt.

  ‘Hecky-thump, you’re a one. You came ready prepared, then?’ He chuckled deep in his throat, then he was fiddling with the button at the waistband of her skirt and peeled it off in no time, leaving her clad only in the flannel nightie. Only then did Dena remember that she was wearing no under-garments, no bra, not even her knickers, and felt herself blush with shame even as her heart quickened with desire. She’d given entirely the wrong impression. What would he think of her?

  Kenny lifted the nightdress as far as her breasts so that he could see her naked body in the moonlight, and she could tell by the stunned admiration in his glinting eyes that he thought her beautiful. She expected him to touch her, to stroke her breasts, to caress her and tell her how pretty she was. But he seemed content simply to drink in the sight of her, which was a little disappointing and made her feel most desperately shy and embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t,’ she murmured. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we?’

  She tried to tell him why but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was making peculiar little gasping noises, and was busy with the buttons of his trousers. The other girls had said that boys liked to be touched and caressed too, just as they did. That it really turned them on and helped to ease things along, as it were. Dena thought that might be what he wanted from her but when she made a move and attempted to take hold of his penis, he shoved her hand away. ‘No, don’t do that. I can manage.’

  The next instant he was on top of her and Dena gave a little squeal of surprise. ‘Hey, what’s the rush. Just remember I’m your girl friend, not some cheap prossy on the make.’

  ‘So why don’t we get on with it? Who are you saving yourself for if not me? You want it, don’t you? You aren’t going to let that lot in there tell you what to do, are you?’

  The rebellious streak again leapt to the fore. ‘Course I’m not. But if we do it, you won’t respect me any more.’

  ‘I love you, don’t I? We’re going to be wed.’

  ‘We haven’t decided that yet, Kenny. Anyway, I don’t want you to think I’m easy.’

  ‘Don’t you want to me to make love to you then?’

  ‘I want you to kiss me first. Lots and lots of kisses. There’s plenty of time, after all. No one knows I’m here and we won’t be disturbed. I want you to touch me and stroke my breasts. Go on, I don’t mind. Oh, I want you so much, Kenny.’

  He said nothing. Just stared at her. Dena noticed a tic just below his left eye and thought perhaps he must be as shy and anxious as she was. They were both so young, after all. But he loved her, so it couldn’t be wrong, could it?

  ‘Shall I touch you? It’s all right, I don’t mind. I like the feel of it, all smooth and velvety. Why don’t I help you take your clothes off too?’

  But he didn’t react at all as the other girls had suggested and again pushed her hand away, as if he was annoyed with her. ‘I should be the one to tell you what to do. Girls aren’t supposed to know about such things, not if they’re a virgin. You just do what I say.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. We talk about sex all the time in the home. I’m not stupid, nor quite so ignorant as I once was, Kenny. One of the girls has a book which tells how a woman can be a good lover. I’m only trying to help and make it good for us both.’

  Dena was more than ready to take a full part in this experiment. Why not? To have someone touch and caress and kiss her was blissful. Week after week, month after month no one ever did touch her, not even to give her a hug. She felt starved of affection. She could feel her breasts start to tingle, a yearning deep inside. Oh, she wanted him to love her so much. She began to unbutton his shirt.

  Kenny was staring at her in astonishment. ‘Women aren’t supposed to enjoy it.’

  ‘Whyever not? I certainly intend to.’

  ‘You are a virgin, right?

  ‘Kenny Garside, what a thing to say! Course I am, what chance have I to be anything else, living in this place?’

  He grinned at her then, his anxiety seeming to fall away. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? You’ve managed to get out to see me.’

  She chuckled. ‘I think you’re jealous. Well, let me tell you Kenny love, there’s no one to be jealous of. I just want to please you, that’s all. I want us to be good lovers, like it says in that book.’

  To bring about this happy state of affairs, Dena took the initiative and started kissing him, long and hard, pressing herself against him while all her inhibitions seemed to fall away.

  She reached for his hands and put them to her breasts. ‘Touch me here, no here on my nipples. Press them, squeeze them. Oh!’ She was astonished by the sensation this instilled in her. She couldn’t remember anything feeling so good. Dena instinctively arched her back, pushing herself closer. ‘Oh, please, do it some more, Kenny.’

  To her shame, she wanted him to do all kinds of things to her and didn’t know where this need, these dreadfully wicked ideas were coming from. Had they all come from that book? She really didn’t think so. They seemed to emerge quite naturally from some sinful inner part of herself, a wanton need that had to be sated. Perhaps Mam was right and she was wayward after all.

  Kenny suddenly stopped touching her, stopped kissing her even, and was breathing hard as if he’d been running a race. He pushed his knee between her legs. ‘Stop talking Dena, will you, and keep still. Don’t move. It’s all right, I won’t hurt you. You’ll like it. It’ll be good.’

  When he slid into her she was not unresistant. She wanted him as much as he needed her. His passion stirred something in her, eased the rawness of that painful rejection.

  He was thrusting inside her, pushing as hard as he could and Dena’s head knocked against a root of the tree, bringing a start of tears to her eyes. She wanted to tell him to hang on a minute till she’d moved out of the way of it, but he didn’t seem to notice as his hands kneaded her buttocks. It hurt more than she’d expected but even as she tried to relax, it seemed to be all over. He gave a strange sort of shudder and collapsed on top of her.

  She felt very slightly cheated.

  Shouldn’t there be a bit more to it? Dena lay quietly beneath him as his skin, slick with sweat, rapidly turned cold in the night air. Was this what her friends had been talking about with such feverish excitement night after night in the common room? Was this the glory of sex?

  But then she thought, okay, they were both young and inexperienced but I’ve done it! I’m a woman now. And she felt suddenly jubilant, triumphant in her act of rebellion. That would show them! She’d wanted to defy Carthorse, Matron and the rest, to hurt someone, most of all herself, for didn’t she deserve to suffer? Wasn’t she to blame for the whole sorry mess of losing her brother?

  If Kenny hadn’t caressed and touched her quite as much as she would have liked, that was surely only because he’d been shy and nervous too.

  She’d longed to have something good happen to her, instead of all bad. And it had been good. Next time it would be even better. Dena had
wanted someone in her life, someone of her own. And she’d achieved that tonight at least, hadn’t she?

  She must have fallen asleep because she was woken by streaks of sunlight slanting through the branches and leapt to her feet. ‘What time is it?’

  Kenny glanced sleepily at his watch. ‘Christ, it’s half past six!’

  Dena ran all the way back, crashing through the woods and blundering through the bushes, not caring about brambles scratching her or snagging her clothes.

  There hadn’t even been time for a proper goodbye. Nor had they made any arrangements to meet again. Kenny had just yelled that he would write, which she knew already, of course he would. He loved her, after all. They were united now.

  She didn’t waste a moment as she leapt up the fire escape two steps at a time, only to find the door locked. Damn! Did someone know that she was out? Had she been discovered? Surely not. Maybe the catch had stuck.

  Heart beating with fear she turned and ran back down again, nearly tripping on the metal stairs in her anxiety to hurry, and without pausing to catch her breath headed for the old pantry which was round the back of the house. This was where Cook stored the meat and milk, the theory being that it was cold enough in this old larder to keep the food fresh, although that never quite seemed to be the case.

  The catch on this window was broken, and it creaked open quite easily when she pushed it. Unfortunately, the gap looked smaller than Dena remembered it. Surely far too small now that she’d filled out a little, and even got breasts?

  Hitching up her skirts, she put one foot on a nearby tree root and hoisted herself up the wall. She just about managed to squeeze head first through the narrow opening, only to fall on to a marble shelf and put her knee in a blancmange, squashing it flat. So much for Monday’s pudding! Perhaps if she left the door of the pantry open, Cook would think that the cat had got in?

  Dena rubbed the sticky pink blancmange off her leg as best she could then quietly tugged open the pantry door. She was holding her breath tight in her chest, since Cook was known for being an early riser and often in the kitchen stirring porridge by six.

  She was lucky this morning, the kitchen was empty and Dena let out a huge sigh of relief. Swiftly and silently she crept across the big old Victorian kitchen, along the back passage then up the back stairs. By the time she reached her bed, heart thumping, she just managed to slide beneath the covers as the rising bell rang. No one had seen her. At least she hoped not.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Champion St Market started life way back in the early fourteenth century when a charter was granted to the burgesses of Manchester to allow them to hold a market in return for paying the Duke of Lancaster a fixed rent for the privilege. It could trace its history further back still, of course, to a two-day annual fair dating right back to William the Conqueror when farmer’s wives would come along to sell their wares. But it wasn’t until late in the nineteenth century that the market hall had been built, a large, glazed building with a cast-iron frame.

  There are other markets in Manchester. Smithfield, Shudehill, Campfield, Grey Mare Lane, and the Victoria meat market amongst others, selling everything from fruit and veg, fish and meat, to fresh flowers and plants.

  Carl drove his wagon to each and every one of them.

  This morning it was laden with crates of lettuces, mushrooms and potatoes, as well as a load of Christmas trees for the coming season.

  Lorries arrived from market gardens all over Britain and even overseas: potatoes from Norfolk, apples from Kent, oranges and lemons from Spain. At the right season, tulips would be flown in from Holland, and daffodils from the Scillies and Channel Isles. All of this in addition to the local produce, to the cabbages and leeks, peas and carrots brought in from farms across Cheshire and Lancashire, as well as fish from Grimsby and Whitby.

  It was still the small hours of the morning but getting up early didn’t trouble him. Carl was used to working odd hours, and, unlike his younger brother, didn’t spend half the night racketing about the streets with his tearaway friends.

  The other Friday night Kenny had come home after midnight, singing at the top of his voice and clearly very much the worse for drink. He’d woken Carl up, which didn’t help him to feel benevolent, and of course their mother was evident by her absence. Carl had stood on the landing in his vest and pyjama trousers shouting at Kenny for getting into such a state, not to mention drinking under age. Then he’d held his head while he was sick, just as he’d done when he was a kid. Daft idiot!

  On Saturday he’d been later still and the following Sunday had stayed out all night. Carl couldn’t begin to guess where he’d been but Kenny had reacted badly when he’d tackled him on the subject, screaming at Carl to mind his own flaming business.

  He certainly seemed to be in a state of high nervous energy, and finally the truth all came rushing out. ‘All right, I saw her. I told you I would. She’s still my girl and come Easter she’ll be home again. She’s going to work on the market and we’re going to get married.’

  Carl didn’t need to ask who he’d seen but was shocked nonetheless. ‘Don’t talk so daft. How can you afford to keep a wife? You’re far too young and you haven’t even a decent job. Every job I find for you, you screw up and get fired. Engineering, warehousing, loading at the docks, labouring. You haven’t got it in you to stick at anything for more than five minutes. Can’t even look after yourself properly let alone be responsible for a wife.’

  ‘Aw, spare me the lecture. I’ve heard it all before a million times.’

  ‘What if she starts having babies? Women do, you know. Itching to dangle a babby on their knee from the minute they catch a fella.’

  ‘Dena isn’t like that. She has ambition and isn’t in a hurry to start a family.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve talked about it with her then?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I did ask her to marry me.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  Kenny looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, she said that she wasn’t yet ready for all that domestic, housewife stuff.’

  ‘Sensible girl. She’s gone up a notch in my estimation. However, I wouldn’t bank on that attitude lasting. Once you start - you know - a bit of how’s-your-father, you might not have any choice in the matter. Then she’ll have you down that aisle faster than greased lightening. They’re all the same.’ Carl looked at his brother more keenly. ‘I take it you were careful. You didn’t go quite that far?’

  Kenny’s face told all. It was riddled with guilt and a sort of self-satisfied triumph.

  ‘Oh no, you haven’t! Is that the real reason you went down there, to have it away with her? Don’t they keep any control over girls in that home?’

  ‘They didn’t even know I was there. She sneaked out to see me at night. It was right good, I don’t mind telling you. Better than I’d expected, actually. At least I proved I could do it, proved I’m a real man.’

  Carl looked at him. His brother said the oddest things at times, never quite giving the reaction you’d expect. ‘Why wouldn’t you be able to do it?’

  ‘No reason.’ Kenny shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands in his pockets and half turned away, although not before Carl had seen a tell-tale crimson flush start to creep up his neck. Had he been as shy and awkward at that age? Carl wondered.

  Once again he sensed that something wasn’t quite right with his younger brother, as if he had a more serious problem troubling him.

  ‘Kenny, is there anything else bothering you? Something on your mind that you’d like to share?’

  Kenny laughed, adopting that famous devil-may-care attitude of his. ‘Why would there be? I’m on top of the world.’ Then he was gone, leaving Carl still nursing a nudge of concern.

  It was a few days later when he spotted him going into the Odeon cinema with another girl on his arm. Nothing to worry about after all then.

  But it was on that particular evening after his brother had gone to bed that Carl discovered the bicycle chain. He’
d seen the bulge in the inside pocket of his jacket as it hung behind the door, investigated and realised it was obviously meant as an offensive weapon.

  Now that did worry him. So much so that he put it back exactly where he found it, resolving to speak to his mother about it before tackling Kenny. He’d maybe take a telling-off from Belle better than from his elder brother.

  Naturally, such a difficult conversation would have to wait until she stayed in the house long enough for her to listen to the tale.

  In the meantime, Carl intended to put his stupid brother, his rabble-rousing and his nonsensical romantic dreams, out of his mind and concentrate on himself for a change. He still hadn’t spoken to Barry Holmes, which he meant to do first thing.

  Carl found Barry working on his allotment, digging up long rows of carrots, his bowler hat still in place although he was clad only in shirt-sleeves, waistcoat and old gardening trousers. His tweed jacket was draped over the handle of the wheelbarrow, for once without the usual trademark carnation stuck in the buttonhole. Barry’s round face was flushed by the exertion of his efforts and when he saw Carl approach he took off the hat to wipe the sweat off his brow with a blue spotted handkerchief.

  ‘Hey up, Carl, me old son. How are you on this fine crisp morning?’

  ‘I was wanting a word.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘I’d like to sound out an idea I’ve got. I could do with a bit of advice.

  ‘Oh, right?’ Barry agreed. ‘Just let me pack these carrots and finish loading the van, then I’m your man, never can resist poking me nose into other folks’ affairs, so long as they leave mine well alone, you understand?’ He chuckled, put away his tools, locked the doors of his shed and pocketed the key.

  Minutes later they were sitting in Belle’s café eating sausage and bacon on a bap, a mug of tea set before each of them. Barry took a huge bite, and, as he chewed, said, ‘Eeh, I were ready for this. It does my old back no good at all digging and humping vegetables about. They don’t get any lighter don’t them boxes of spuds, do they? Not that they’d be a problem for a great brawny lad like you. Always were fit, I seem to recall.’