The Factory Girl

by Maggie Ford

A thought came to her and she sat up. ‘We don’t do all that well here with so much poverty, so many out of work. I know you love doing what you do, but we could find other premises in an area where people can still afford things like jewellery? Perhaps you could even start buying in supplies instead of making it yourself. I know how much you like making your own jewellery but you could sell that on the side. We might grow and grow and even end up in the West End and become—’

  ‘Hold on!’ He gave a laugh and she could practically see his mind working. ‘All this takes money. I don’t have that kind of money.’

  She calmed, but her enthusiasm didn’t wane. ‘I know this place hardly even pays for itself, and if it wasn’t for your father we’d be—’

  ‘Ah, yes, my father.’

  The way he said it pulled her up sharply. ‘You mean he might not continue to fund you if we move?’

  The long silence made her start to wonder what she had said that was wrong. Tony pulled his arm away from around her shoulders and eased himself out of their comfortable position to wander about the small room.

  ‘Yes, my father,’ he said after a while. He turned to look at her, his expression somewhat strange. ‘It’s possible he’ll continue to provide me with funds.’ An odd emphasis fell on the word ‘funds’ but she overlooked it as he went on, ‘But it might take a while for it to get going again. While we wait, we might need to pull in our horns for a time. With a baby coming as well.’

  Geraldine brightened. She’d been worried that he might discard her suggestion of finding some other shop, but he seemed worried only about his father getting used to the idea of his son’s intentions to become a high-class jeweller and not follow the profession he had set his heart on him doing, and that they must tread carefully for a while. But she was willing enough to go carefully if that was what it took to get out of this hole and into a lovely house.

  ‘With a baby coming,’ she said, full of excitement now, ‘I don’t think I shall be in any fit state to go gadding about anyway.’

  She saw his smile return, confident now. He was thinking of course that his father would soon come round and they’d be off again as the new shop, wherever it would be, began to pay for itself.

  Anthony closed the door quietly on the fellow, and returned to examine what he had brought – a couple of gold rings, one ruby, one emerald, one gold necklace, one gold pendant, two jewelled neck brooches, and some silver trinkets, no doubt from a woman’s jewellery box, the petty criminal not daring to venture further – not bad for forty shillings, the man registering the usual look of disappointment at reaping so small a return for a risky night’s work. But such people couldn’t be choosers. Anthony had discovered that in Paris while on convalescent leave, when he had first tried to get rid of a bit of stuff he’d come by from someone needing a drop of whisky to help calm his shell shock.

  Now to break down the stuff and dispose of it elsewhere in the usual way. He’d developed some decent contacts in the time he’d been in this shop. He gnawed the corner edge of his lower lip as he thought of Geraldine and her desire to move away. It meant having to pass the word that he was going elsewhere, make sure it was his present contacts only who’d know his whereabouts. Had to be careful. Couldn’t risk the crime squad coming down on him.

  He set to work on the rings. Mustn’t be too long about it or Geraldine would start asking why he was being so long down here. He had put aside a stock of the cheap imitation jewellery he still made to show her in case she insisted on seeing the fruits of those labours.

  Meantime, he must get to work prising the stones from their settings, wrapping them in velvet ready for disposal, the empty settings to be melted down. He knew a chap who took the resultant small ingots of gold and silver, no questions asked, who gave him quite a decent price so long as he could always promise more. There was another who specialised in good gems, but a harder man to deal with and Anthony didn’t entirely trust him.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. Five to eight. Time enough to smelt down the metals, pour them into their separate moulds. The smelter he had wasn’t large, didn’t hold a lot. If this game were to expand he’d need a far bigger one. Geraldine’s suggestion to buy a larger place had come at the right time and he nodded happily to himself. A larger place, a bigger area to ‘work’ in, secreted maybe in a basement – yes, Geraldine falling for this baby had been the best thing that could have happened.

  So long as she never discovered what he did. He didn’t care to think what her reaction might be; but whatever, good or bad, he couldn’t risk her letting the cat out of the bag to a friend or one of her blasted relatives, not seeing the danger in her eagerness to boast. Loose tongues weren’t what he needed.

  He smiled grimly to himself. His was an entirely different face when dealing with these people. He had learned to be tough in France, had learned to look after number one without it being too apparent. The only way to stay alive. He’d even got a medal for staying alive. For bravery, but it was the two dead soldiers who’d been brave. Required to go over the top to rescue an injured superior officer, he’d taken two men with him. He’d led the way at first, but as they drew enemy gunfire, the three of them had dropped to the ground, crawling through thick mud to reach the stricken officer. Somehow the two privates had reached the man first, the mud seeming to impede his own progress. Getting to their feet well before he reached them, they had attempted to lift the injured man whose right leg had been torn completely from his body by an exploding shell.

  Standing, the injured man being dragged heavily between them, they’d made a good target and as he reached them, still crawling, they had fallen dead. He had felt the impact of the officer tumbling across his shoulders. Unwittingly shielded by the man, he had twisted round and had crawled back the way he’d come, had toppled back into the trench, medical orderlies coming forward to get the rescued officer to a field hospital, noting how his rescuer had risked his life to save him. He hadn’t enlightened them with the truth.

  For a while he’d felt guilty of deceit but it had opened the way for an existence he’d never anticipated. Men, trusting him, came to confide their worries and anxieties, even on occasion entrusting him with a valuable or two, to be given to a wife or a fiancée or a mother should something happen were they to be ordered over the top, superstitiously deeming him invincible after what he’d done in the face of enemy fire. There had come others, not so honest, who, also having come by such items of sentimentality, had hung on to them and now approached him looking for a few fags in exchange. And after a while, not knowing to whom these valuables belonged, he, to his shame at first, had flogged one or two bits to someone who in his turn had given him a few francs, he too playing the game. This way they had become buddies in crime, if it could be called that.

  Wounded in the thigh, he had spent a little time in hospital and had somehow managed to be sent to Paris to convalesce. He’d had a good time there and it had been there too that he’d been able to unload himself of a fine gold pocket watch and a signet ring that had come his way via some cad or other. He hadn’t got much for them from the Parisian fence he’d found, in fact not a fifth of their true worth, but he’d glimpsed what could be earned were he to get into this lark for himself.

  On being returned to the front, the idea had faded. But with the Armistice, his father looking to rule his life, and he needing to kick over the traces and achieve something by his own merits, something that would keep his hands occupied and stop them shaking so much from the odd attack of shell shock, he discovered a hidden gift for designing nice things from metal – having occupied himself during quieter moments of the war by twisting softer bits of metal he found into interesting shapes and becoming absorbed by it.

  He’d hit on the idea of trying to design jewellery. This shop and the sideline that had ended up going with it had been the result. And well paid was that sideline that still went with it.

  So long as Geraldine never found out.

  Chapter Twelver />
  It was one of those deceptively warm March afternoons that made people feel that summer would come early. If it didn’t lift the heart of the man standing in the dole queue, the down and out begging in the gutter, or the mother trying to feed her family on fifteen shillings a week unemployment benefit, it certainly put a spring in the step of the well-off – like Geraldine for instance.

  She had just remarked on how good the fresh air made her feel, though it didn’t feel that way to Mavis as her sister took in a deep and appreciative lungful of the balmy March air of Victoria Park, the sun’s warmth on both their faces. Mavis breathed too, but shallowly and only because she had to and for no other reason, and sod the fresh air.

  Pushing little Simon in a second-hand, somewhat dilapidated pram, she gazed down at him, the nine-month-old baby, face pasty, his skin spotty from not getting the best of food. But he was well dressed in a little coat and bonnet Geraldine had recently bought for him. Mavis, learning fast, wasn’t one bit insulted by her sister’s gift – why shouldn’t she accept a present or two from someone to whom a few shillings didn’t matter?

  Tom was out of work and she was worried out of her life with possibly another baby on the way, at least she hadn’t had her period for two months and that could only mean one thing. Nor was she too proud to take the few shillings Geraldine had begun handing her since Tom had been laid off. Desperate measures had no time for pride, even if Mum and Dad stuck to theirs like jam to a blanket. They’d have rather seen themselves in the gutter than accept money that Dad himself didn’t earn. Principles – you could stick em!

  But she did need to cling to a little self-respect. ‘Please don’t tell Mum,’ she’d pleaded when first she held out her hand for the five shillings Geraldine practically had to force on her four weeks ago. There had been such an argument about it but finally she had to give in. ‘You won’t tell them, will you?’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘They’d be so upset with me. I wouldn’t take it but I need ter pay the rent and we ain’ got it. We ’ave ter feed ourselves, and Simon more than either of us needs to eat.’

  ‘I know, Mavis, I understand, and if I can be of any—’

  She didn’t want to listen to the words of charity that would make her feel worse than she did. ‘Last week,’ she cut in, ‘I could ’ardly afford milk for ’im. I don’t want ter start owin’ on the rent. It builds up and finally yer don’t know where you are and next thing yer know, they’re slinging you out. They don’t care, them landlords, so long as they get their money, they don’t care who suffers.’

  Since then, Geraldine had upped her handout a little – six shillings this week when she’d come to visit.

  Mavis felt her smile stiff on her face. ‘This’ll pay the rent at least,’ she said. And Geraldine, almost as embarrassed as she, had said, ‘Look, Mavis, don’t say any more about it. I’d rather you just take it.’

  It wasn’t just the money, but little things she brought for Simon, like the coat and bonnet, and not even his birthday. She was embarrassed and hated herself at times for the feelings of resentment that stole over her when Geraldine bid her a bright, careless goodbye that she could do things like this, fling money about, while she herself was reduced to taking it.

  Monday was when Geraldine always visited Mum. She’d have a cup of tea with her and eat a piece of the cake she always brought along. She’d have brought much more, knowing Dad’s work these days was erratic, but Mum so regularly spurned her handouts as she liked to call them, leaving Geraldine to take them back home, that she had learned never to overdo it. But a piece of cake was just a token, a little gift. Even so, Mum would cut a piece for her and never for herself. It was so obvious sometimes that more often than not Geraldine came away quietly seething. Her parents were the limit and there was no reason for it. Yet she always brought the cake.

  Today Mum met her at the street door, her face tense and stressed. ‘Yer dad’s bin taken to ’ospital. Accident at work this mornin’. Some crates gave way while they was being hoisted or somethink, so ’is mate what came ter tell me said, and a metal strip from a crate went through yer dad’s arm right ter the bone, ’e said.’ Despite her expression Mum’s voice was toneless. ‘Another knocked unconscious ’e said. Concussed. The bloke what told me went off ter tell the other one’s wife. They got an ambulance an’ took ’em ter the Poplar.’ It was the hospital to which most men hurt in the docks were taken, but it was quite a way from Mum’s house. ‘I’m on me way there now.’

  Geraldine hesitated hardly a second. ‘I’ll dash home and get Tony to take you in the car.’

  Mum lifted her head. Quite suddenly it seemed as though she saw herself as having been insulted. ‘No you won’t!’ she snapped. ‘I can walk!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mum.’

  ‘It ain’t far.’

  ‘But you’d be there in two ticks in the car. It’ll take you nearly half an hour walking.’

  ‘Time he gets in ’is car, gets it started up and gets it round ’ere, I’ll be ’alfway there. I can nip through the back-turnings, a car can’t.’

  ‘Time you get there you’ll be worn out,’ retorted Geraldine.

  Her mother glared at her. ‘I don’t want no car, thank you!’

  Geraldine stood at the door as Mum disappeared inside the house to get her hat, her coat and her handbag. The shock of the news had stunned her. She would go with Mum of course. But as her mother came out she brushed past her as though she didn’t exist, or as if she’d been insulted by her, starting off at a brisk pace leaving Geraldine standing for a moment, shaken by her attitude before galvanising herself into action and racing after her.

  ‘Mum, please. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Yer dad’s in ’ospital, that’s what’s the matter.’

  ‘I don’t mean that, Mum.’ It was all she could do to keep up with her, her mother’s step so rapid, and before long she was out of breath. Mum couldn’t carry on at this pace, but she knew it wasn’t so much an urgency to reach the hospital as a wish not to be beholden to Tony, even for getting into his car. It was so ridiculous. ‘Mum, slow down, you’ll kill yourself. Why are you so against Tony? He’s never done you any harm – not consciously.’

  Her mother stopped suddenly to glare up at her. ‘Your ’usband acts like we’re paupers. Offerin’ this, offerin’ that. Don’t he know what accepting money makes yer feel like? I expect he’s always bin able ter put ’is ’and in ’is pocket and don’t know the first thing of what it’s like ter worry where the next ha’penny’s coming from, without ’im making us conscious of it. No, Gel, you tell ’im we don’t want ’is ’elp if all ’e can do is look down ’is nose at us. It takes more’n money to ’elp others, like just being neighbourly fer one thing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And I don’t need you with me neither.’

  Anger blazed up inside Geraldine. Her hands tightening into fists at her sides, she glared down at her mother, whose naturally proud stature still didn’t increase her height above her daughter’s eyes.

  Recrimination tumbled uncontrolled from Geraldine’s lips. She was a child again, being wrongly accused and not knowing how to combat it. ‘Why don’t you want me with you, Mum? He’s my dad and I don’t want to see anythink ’appen to ’im. I love ’im, and I’m as worried about ’im as you are. I’m scared for ’im knowing what’s ’appened. I don’t care if you don’t want me with you, I can walk behind you. But you can’t stop me going to see me own dad. And I hate the way you and Dad treat me and Tony, Mum.’

  Her mother’s voice was steady. How could it be so steady? ‘If you and ’im was ter come down off yer ’igh ’orse once in a while, I might be better inclined to the pair of yer. But ever since yer met ’im, Gel, yer’ve made us feel as if we ain’t good enough for yer no more.’

  ‘That’s not true, Mum. I love you. I love you both.’

  She blurted it out in desperation but Mum gave a mighty huff and turned away to walk on almost
as fast as before. Now Geraldine remained half a dozen steps behind her but not once did she turn round, leaving Geraldine to stare at that straight, proud back for the rest of the way.

  Even when they got to the forbidding entrance of the hospital with its blackened brick and its windows staring out like sightless eye sockets, she strode on as though her daughter wasn’t there.

  All this from being offered a lift in a car – Tony’s car. So unreasonable, so pointless and so stupid! It was hard to control the sickness that lay in her heavily beating heart, even harder to subdue the anger accompanying it.

  By the time they’d walked endless, cold corridors, and climbed endless flights of stairs, every part of the place an unrelieved cream and green, and that dulled and pockmarked by time and open fireplaces, an ancient hospital to say the least, she and Mum were worn off their feet.

  What Geraldine had expected to find as they finally reached the ward and a nurse directed them to the bed at the far end of the long, busy hall, she wasn’t sure, but her mind saw a man, grey-faced from the loss of blood, body limp, the drip making hardly any difference, the expressionless face of the doctor sadly shaking his head in silent commiseration at the doomed man’s loved ones. Instead there was a nurse, all bright and cheerful, saying, ‘Mrs Glover? Ah, yes, your husband’s fine. All successfully stitched up but he is swearing a lot.’ It was a jovial admonition, a hinted request to try to curb the man’s bad behaviour in a crowded ward with nurses around.

  ‘I bet they’ve heard worse than your dad,’ Mum said, smiling grimly, seeming to have got over her resentment, possibly borne out of anxiety, Geraldine imagined, now forgiving her and only eager to see her father.

  Making their way down the ward, passing bed after bed of men, some lying limp and ill, some sitting up and grinning at the visitors, they finally came to Dad’s bed, two from the end. He was sitting up, his arm swathed in a pure white bandage and in faded cotton, blue-striped, hospital pyjamas, though his cheeks and greying dark hair still had traces of dust and grime from the hold he’d been working in at the time of the accident.