The Factory Girl

by Maggie Ford

  But he had looked at her, and his eyes had surely glistened.

  They glistened now, she was certain, as he came from the back room on her entering the shop. And so they ought. She’d done herself up for this occasion – under the wrap-around apron she used for work she’d worn her best skirt and blouse. The apron now stowed under her bench back at work, the skirt and blouse were having their moment of glory. Not that he’d see much of them with February necessitating a winter coat, but it made her feel better dressed and that must surely show on her face. Having added a touch of face powder, she knew she looked good without his eyes telling her as his smile widened in welcome.

  ‘Hullo, I did wonder if I’d see you this lunchtime.’

  ‘It’s the only time I get off during the day.’ She wasn’t yet prepared to tell him what she worked at though he would know sooner or later if things got more serious.

  ‘Do you work far from here?’ he asked, obviously happy to make conversation.

  ‘No, not far,’ she obliged.

  ‘What do you do?’ Heartening that he should be interested, on the other hand alarming that she must now lie, or dare she tell the truth? She decided to prevaricate.

  ‘I’m a … a high-class dress machinist,’ she stammered. ‘My work goes mostly to the West End.’

  What a fib! Rubins’ garments mostly went to shops in Petticoat Lane and Roman Road markets. She did intend one day to go in for better-quality work – she was up to it. Even at Rubins she was always given all the better garments to do. Leaving there to better herself would of course mean saying goodbye to her mates, especially Eileen. Eileen, not all that skilled – a moderately fast worker but happy to tick along and draw her pay packet on Friday – would never be accepted by people like court dressmakers such as she herself hoped to be employed by eventually.

  ‘I mean to do even better,’ she went on, hoping she didn’t sound too boring, but he looked interested and she was encouraged. ‘Have a business of my own one day – do what I’ve always enjoyed most.’ Thoughts of it were beginning to make her speak better. ‘Creating my own designs.’

  ‘I understand what you mean,’ he returned. ‘There’s something very satisfying about working with one’s hands. I never really felt fulfilled by what I did prior to the war. I told you, my father is a solicitor. Wanted me to continue in the legal profession. But it never appealed to me. I hated to disappoint him and joining up helped me escape, so to speak. I suppose I’ve come back a different person though the process isn’t quite what I would recommend.’

  Geraldine devoured all that he was saying, seeing for the first time the haunted expression behind his eyes, wondering what sort of war he’d had, what might have happened to him, though like a lot of men back from France, if that was where he’d been, he’d never say even if it was there in his eyes. But there was no time to dwell on it. Time was flying by. She dare not be late back to work, yet dared not make the same mistake she had made yesterday.

  ‘But you would recommend making beautiful things,’ she prompted. It had the desired effect, bringing him back to the present.

  His eyes lit up. ‘Ah, yes, your necklace. Just a tick! I hope this is just what you had in mind.’ Making for the back room, he reappeared moments later with an oblong velvet box.

  ‘I spent last night on this,’ he announced, unwrapping it as though it were as delicate as spider silk. ‘I hope you like it.’

  Geraldine gasped as the box was opened to reveal the most delicate thing she had ever seen – a string of small, rounded, dark-blue stones, each one separated by a tiny seed pearl that glowed with such lustre that it seemed impossible they were merely artificial.

  ‘They look so real,’ she sighed. God knows what this was going to cost. Now she’d have to tell him it wasn’t quite what she wanted, to save the humiliation of having to admit she couldn’t afford such a thing.

  He was smiling. ‘The blue ones are meant to be lapis lazuli, not real.’ She’d never heard of lapis lazuli. ‘I’m afraid the pearls are also artificial.’

  How could she tell? The tiny pearls in particular had such a soft delicate glow about them that they could easily have been real. There was a look in his eyes when she looked up at him suddenly that made her feel that he wasn’t in fact telling the truth.

  ‘How d’you make beads like this?’ she burst out in admiration and again he smiled. It was such a lovely smile.

  ‘Secrets of the trade.’ He sounded teasing. ‘I buy them and string them.’ He pointed to the blue stones. ‘Lapis lazuli has gold flecks in it, so a little gold colour dabbed on makes it look authentic. The pearls are glass and lined with the material that comes from the inside of oyster shells, called nacre.’

  From the seemingly diffident young man he had now assumed a voice of authority that rather surprised and somewhat overawed her. All she could say was, ‘It’s lovely. And I do like the pretend silver clasp.’

  ‘It’s not pretend,’ he said, ‘It is silver.’

  Geraldine stared at him in alarm. ‘I didn’t ask for real silver. I really can’t …’

  She was going to say she couldn’t afford real silver but stopped in time. Dare she ask the price? But he must know what she was about to say and, telling her the price, he would grin in amusement at her horrified expression. She’d put her foot in it yet again. What man who had a solicitor for a father, who had pots of money, or at least whose father had, and who could turn down a promising career to play at making cheap jewellery, wouldn’t be turned off by a girl who earned a living slaving away at a sewing machine and couldn’t afford anything more than half a crown at the most for a row of beads? She earned seven shillings and sixpence a week: two and six was a third of a week’s wages.

  Instead of grinning, he was surveying her in all seriousness. Gone was the efficiency that had awed her a moment ago, replaced by uncertainty that instantly melted her heart and took away all her earlier dismay.

  ‘What would you say to two shillings? It’s not as expensive as it looks.’

  With an effort she regained control of her emotion and gazed down at the necklace. ‘I can’t believe it.’ Was he merely being charitable? She didn’t want him treating her as though she were unable to pay her way. ‘I must give you more than that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied quickly. ‘It didn’t take that long to make, nor did it take up much material. A bit of silver I had by – see, it’s quite thin.’ He turned the clasp over for her to see the hollowness on the inner side. ‘The beads I already had in stock. As for the blue ones, a dab or two of colour cost me nothing.’

  It seemed to Geraldine that he was using the term ‘beads’ deliberately. Most jewellers would automatically say stones. Was it in order to come down to her level, or minimise the real value of the necklace? She wanted to think it was the latter though either way made her uncomfortable. If it was the latter why didn’t she believe him? He’d admitted that the clasp was real silver. Why silver if the stones were fake? Any old metal would have done for just ‘beads’. It didn’t make sense.

  ‘You don’t have to have it if you don’t want,’ he was saying.

  ‘No!’ she burst in, mortified that she could think bad things of him. ‘It’s lovely. I just thought … No, it’s lovely.’

  That seemed to satisfy him. ‘You should have earrings as well,’ he said, immediately alarming her. ‘I took the liberty last night of making some. Of course, if you don’t like them they can go in the window.’

  The suggestion was almost apologetic and she found herself hastening to reassure him. ‘I ain’t … I’ve not had my ears pierced so I don’t wear …’ She let the explanation die. It was hard keeping up the nice accent, her mind in a whirl of mixed feelings, but he shouldn’t have assumed she’d want them. It put her in an awkward situation, hating to admit that she couldn’t afford earrings on top of a necklace, even though he’d said only two shillings. Two shillings! She still couldn’t believe that, not for a necklace of this beau
ty and length.

  He was still looking at her intently. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if you’d accept them as a … as a gift.’

  A twinge of wariness, alarm even, welled up because he was trying to get friendly with her in a way she hadn’t expected. ‘I don’t …’ she began then paused.

  She’d been about to say she didn’t want his gift but it would have sounded hurtful. She should explain that a girl didn’t accept presents from a man she hardly knew. Yet if she said that, he might take it as an insult and she’d never be able to bring herself to go into his shop again. Then she would never get to know him.

  Muscles taut, one hand clutching the edge of the counter, the other clasping her handbag handle as if both hands were glued there, she began again.

  ‘I mean, I don’t know you well enough for you ter give me presents. It ain’t right.’ Head down, she let go of the counter to fish into her handbag for the required money. ‘I’ll just pay for the necklace, if you’d wrap it up. Then I must go. But thanks.’

  It had to cost more than he’d asked but she was too confused to query it, handing the money over, knowing she’d made a proper mess of things.

  She stood dumbly aside as the till rang and he wrapped the box in pretty paper; she took it from him not daring to lift her eyes to his, managing to mumble, ‘Thank you,’ and made for the door.

  As the shop bell tinkled, she heard his voice. ‘The earrings will be here if you want them.’

  In a flurry of confusion she nodded vaguely and bolted, practically cannoning into a passer-by as she grabbed her bicycle. In no manner could she ever go back into that shop. She’d made a fool of herself. She’d insulted him, spurned his generous offer, or that’s how it seemed.

  All day it stayed with her. She couldn’t even confide the event to Eileen for all her friend was burning up with curiosity. ‘Tell you tomorrow,’ was all she said as she bent her head to her work, machining away furiously under the formidable eye of Mrs Greenaway, having come back after lunch three minutes late.

  It was Wednesday and still she couldn’t bring herself to tell Eileen what had happened. Eileen would have probably called her a fool to run from the shop like that. Rather than scoff at her for ogling at a man like Hanford she’d have probably chided her for refusing the offering, embarrassing her even further. But there was no going back now. Cycling past the shop at six-thirty, she was relieved to find it closed for the evening although a light glowed in the room above. What was he doing up there? Would he be reading the paper or having his supper or doing some chore or other? She tried not to imagine what he’d be doing and cycled furiously on past in case he looked out of the window and saw her, glad to turn down the side street leading to her own home.

  Next day, lunchtime was spent at her bench eating her sandwiches and trying to avoid Eileen’s questions on where she’d gone that Monday and why she had been so secretive about it.

  ‘I bet all the tea in China you’re seein’ some bloke,’ Eileen said, ‘and yer mum don’t approve. That it?’

  ‘No, that ain’t it,’ snapped Geraldine, managing to change the subject sufficiently to take Eileen’s mind off it. But she knew Eileen would come back to it, if not now, then eventually.

  Passing the shop on her way home on the Thursday evening, she wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed to find the place again in darkness, the upstairs light gleaming through drawn curtains. Was he disappointed that she’d never come back to claim her earrings? She slowed, taking one foot off the pedal and onto the kerb to come to a stop. The curtains drawn, she didn’t think he’d be peeping out. Again daydreaming as to what he might be doing, a voice behind her made her start.

  ‘Is it you?’

  Turning her head in panic towards the voice, imagining it to be the man she’d thought was up there above the darkened shop, she almost collapsed with relief seeing Alan Presley hurrying up to her.

  ‘It is you,’ he said, joining her. ‘Geraldine Glover. I ain’t seen you in ages. What yer standing ’ere for?’

  ‘Just coming ’ome from work,’ she excused, gathering up her wits. ‘I stopped ter put me skirt right. It keeps getting’ caught in the pedal.’ It was as good an excuse as any and to make it look more plausible she got off the cycle and began to walk, pushing the thing while he fell into step beside her.

  ‘Wanna be careful. Could ’ave you over. Use cycle clips meself.’ He chuckled at his own joke. ‘Yer need them guard things when yer got a skirt.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘What yer doing with yerself these days?’ he went on.

  ‘Oh, this an’ that,’ she replied warmly, pleased now to have him take her mind off other things.

  ‘Got a bloke?’

  ‘No, not at the moment. And how’re you doing?’

  Probably the wrong thing to ask, being estranged from his wayward wife, but he didn’t seem too put out; instead, he gave a small despondent grunt.

  ‘Chuggin’ along. You know. Don’t do much with meself lately.’

  He’d thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his long, beige topcoat, the collar drawn up against the cold of this February evening. There was a slight drizzle in the air that had every promise of turning to snow later on.

  ‘Yer can go round ter see yer folks,’ he continued, ‘but there’s only so much yer want ter see of ’em. An’ I ain’t that keen on airing me business. Yer know what people are like, prying, askin’ questions.’

  Yes, didn’t she know it with Eileen going on all day about where she’d been these two lunchtimes, who it was she’d seen and why all the secrecy?

  Feeling for him, she kept away from enquiring about his divorce, but he seemed ready to talk.

  ‘Don’t know whether to go back ter me parents or stay in me flat. She’s gorn, me ole woman. Orf with ’er fancy man. So I’m on me own. It’s only a couple of rooms we ’ad. I don’t know whether to ’ang on to it or not.’

  ‘I’d hang on to it if I was you,’ advised Geraldine as they turned down her road. ‘Nothing like independence. You can always go round to see your people when you want. If you go back and live with them you mightn’t find leaving so easy.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just that I don’t go out much. I seem to’ve got out of the habit of asking girls out. It ain’t much fun goin’ ter the pictures or standin’ in a pub all by yerself.’

  ‘Ain’t yer got no friends yer can go with?’

  ‘They’re all married. They go out with their wives, and I ain’t no hanger on.’ For a second his step faltered, then he came to an abrupt stop. She stopped too and found him looking at her.

  ‘What?’ she challenged.

  ‘It’s just, I was wonderin’.’

  ‘What?’ she asked again.

  ‘If yer’d like ter go to the pictures with me, say this Saturday?’

  It was her turn to hesitate. She’d always liked Alan, in fact had once had a crush on him. Nor could she put any faith in Anthony Hanford taking a serious interest in her. She’d been a fool to imagine he would.

  Alan, with his regular features, rugged, handsome, his chin strong, his mouth firm, a resolute mouth – she’d kissed those lips years ago and had found the experience enjoyable. He was tall, a good six feet, lean, muscles strengthened by army training and his experiences in France – he’d been in the thick of it, she’d heard. Yet he’d always had such a nice and easy nature. Maybe why his wife had taken advantage of him, thinking he’d take her back after her fling. Giving his wife her marching orders proved an inner strength that brought admiration flooding into Geraldine’s eyes as she looked at him in the gloom of a street lamp.

  It was no good pining after what she couldn’t have – a husband with money. Here was an offer staring her right in the face in the shape of a modest bricklayer, and she was getting slightly desperate for a boyfriend. Not that she couldn’t get one but she’d always been too choosy. It was time she stopped looking for that perfect someone and befo
re she could give it another thought she’d said yes – yes she wouldn’t mind going to see the pictures.

  Chapter Four

  She’d seen Alan Presley four Saturdays running, going with him to the local picture house and once to the People’s Palace to see a show, insisting on paying for her own seat because he wasn’t that well off – well, neither was she, and also she didn’t want him thinking she was his girl, not yet anyway; not until she could put Anthony Hanford from her mind, which was still proving a problem.

  She hadn’t told Alan about him. It wasn’t any of his business. And besides, she still felt more than a bit embarrassed by the whole thing. Looking back on it, how she could have walked into his shop thinking he’d fall head over heels for her, or even dream that he would give her a second glance, was enough to screw her insides up with shame. Yet he had seemed to be taken by her, or was that just his stock in trade?

  She still didn’t know what to think, in fact preferred not to think about it at all if that was possible, mortified as she was by her behaviour. She could imagine him smirking over it, if he still remembered it enough to smirk – accepting Alan’s invitation for a date had taken some of the sting out of it and it had gone on from there. She’d always been keen on Alan but felt nervous of getting too serious for the moment. For one thing he might see her as a handy convenience after his unhappy marriage, and for another, was she ready to get involved, also being on the rebound, so to speak, now that her own silly hopes had been nipped in the bud?

  ‘Where’d yer like to go next Saturday?’ Alan had asked her as they said goodnight to each other the previous Saturday. She had let him kiss her on leaving him at the end of her street. A light sort of kiss – she wasn’t allowing it to get too serious, even though it sent a tingle up her spine. She was in a dilemma of uncertainty, part of her still yearning for the more sophisticated Anthony Hanford even as she chided herself for her silliness.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she replied. ‘But if we go to the pictures again I want to pay for meself. You can’t keep spending out.’