The Factory Girl

by Maggie Ford

  Appetite seemed to have vanished. Gazing down at the one slice of toast she had made, she debated whether to keep the doctor’s appointment or not. What she really wanted to do was to go and see Mum. Mum was the one person she most wanted at this moment, to pour out this new worry to her, have her give advice, at least share the weight that was fast descending upon her rather like some light fluffy cloud high in a blue sky; the way she’d felt on waking this morning began to darken and spread and lower itself down to the very crown of her head.

  Geraldine pushed the toast away from her and gulped down the nearly cold tea she had poured ages ago. She had decided. She’d drop a note into the surgery saying she couldn’t keep this appointment and would make another for the next day instead. Then she would take a taxi to Mum’s – too near her time to fight with buses, nor was she prepared to be rattled around in a tube train.

  She felt much better as she left the house, apart from the somewhat painful weight of the baby lying on her bladder all the time and feeling as though its main aim inside her was to prise the top of her legs apart.

  As always, Geraldine made her way around to the back door of what had once been her home.

  There was no horrid smell now. Dad was better, had been back working with his old gang in the docks for months now. Where there was still a million unemployed, Dad was bringing in decent money – not enough for what he’d like, but reasonable with so many lay-offs, though that had always been accepted in the docks.

  Mum was able to keep the outside lav and its surrounding area as fresh as a daisy without having all her hard work thwarted. Apparently Dad was no longer compelled to creep down in the middle of the night, the chain being pulled to wake up the entire neighbourhood. Mum could now hold her head up with pride before all her neighbours.

  Geraldine tapped on the back door, opened it a fraction, calling, ‘Coo-ee!’ and heard her mother call from the back room, ‘Oo’s that?’

  She came fully into the kitchen. ‘It’s only me, Mum, Geraldine.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Mum appeared from the back room, broom in one hand, a battered, black metal dustpan in the other, full of grey fluff from odd corners and from the rug in front of the fire grate and brownish-white breadcrumbs from her family’s usual hurried breakfast taken in relays as each got ready for work. Now she was the only one left in the house and well into her chores for the day. On a clothes horse folded clothes hung airing, having been ironed the day before and now ready for putting away in drawers and on shelves.

  Geraldine leaned forward and kissed her mother’s lined, narrow cheek, touching both arms in an apology for an embrace, aware that Mum with her hands full could not embrace her in any way, though even if she had been able to, she wouldn’t have done so. As usual Geraldine could feel the coolness emanating from her into her own body.

  ‘How are you, Mum?’ she asked as she took off her deep-crowned hat and dropped it onto the kitchen table, already cleared, the plain deal board already scrubbed and clean. ‘Been keeping well?’

  ‘Since yer last came, yes,’ was the reply, stiff, cold, indicating that Geraldine hadn’t set foot here for nearly three weeks.

  ‘I’m finding it a bit of a job travelling,’ she said by way of excuse.

  ‘Yer managed today, though.’

  Geraldine gave a laugh and took off her jacket in a gesture of her intention to stay awhile. ‘It’s still a bit of a job. Shall I put the kettle on, Mum?’

  ‘Your Tony could of dropped you off in ’is car – he comes this way.’

  ‘He left early, well before I was up.’

  ‘When I was ’aving you kids, I was always up before yer dad, makin’ sure I got ’im off ter work proper. I didn’t ’ave anyone ter tell me ter lie around in bed ’alf the morning.’

  ‘Tony just worries about me, says I need me rest.’ Automatically she’d slipped into the old speech. ‘D’yer want me to put the kettle on, Mum?’

  ‘If yer like.’ Her mother went to the back door, beyond which stood a pockmarked, well-battered steel dustbin. There came the clash of metal on metal as the debris of the dustpan was emptied into it, the crash of the dustbin lid being replaced, speaking volumes to the listener as though Mum was working herself into a confrontation with her daughter.

  Geraldine, with the kettle balanced over the sink, its lid taken off for the tap water to trickle into the aperture, listened to the sounds with a heart that grew heavier by the second. Why did Mum always have to be this way? How could she ever tell her what Tony was up to and hope for sympathy?

  Tea was drunk in virtual silence, she asking the questions. How was Dad? How were Fred and Evie getting on at work? Mum’s monosyllabic, monotonic responses. And were Wally and Clara doing all right?

  For a moment or two Mum came to life, forgetting to remain on the defensive. Yes, they were fine, these days talking of nothing but the wedding next spring, saving every penny they made but still hadn’t as much as they wanted and they yet had to find somewhere to live.

  Another hiatus during which Geraldine sipped her tea and nibbled a biscuit she didn’t really want. The house smelled of yesterday’s ironing and the washing and drying of the day before. It seemed to hang around as though seeping from the very walls – a damp smell. There lingered a faint odour of yesterday’s dinner too, unidentifiable yet persistent, and mingling with it a faintly pungent scent of mothballs.

  She asked after Mavis, saying she’d not been able to get to see her, being near her own time as she was; was told Mavis was bearing up as best she could, that she (Mum) went round there several times a week to see if there was anything she needed to be done. This brought a stab to Geraldine’s breast that Mum never hopped on a bus to her to see if there was anything she might need, but then of course she was further away and it meant a bus ride, and being comfortably off as Mum would have it, she could afford to pay for help, and didn’t need her – all hurtful in its intimation.

  She asked after Aunt Tillie, Mum’s brother Frank’s wife who hadn’t been too well just lately with breathing problems, and was told she was a lot better; asked after Aunt Vi, Dad’s sister who also hadn’t been too well, was told she was no better, her husband Bill said it was her heart, which had got Dad worried. ‘If she goes, it’ll be ’is first sister ter go. It won’t ’alf upset ’im.’

  Appropriate nodding of agreement, another cup of tea offered which she refused politely. She’d been here long enough trying to force conversation.

  ‘I’m going to have to go, Mum,’ she said as her cultured tones returned. ‘I need to go off home and rest.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m supposed to rest in the afternoons.’

  ‘I worked right up to the last minute with you lot,’ said Mum, also getting up as Geraldine got awkwardly to her feet. ‘And I didn’t ’ave no trouble bringing you all inter the world.’

  Geraldine smiled and nodded compliance. Mum had had one still-born and two miscarriages from what she’d heard. Perhaps if she hadn’t had to work up to the last minute she might have saved those babies. Then of course her family would have been bigger still to have to cope with, the mother worn out before her time. Again, she, Geraldine, the third oldest child now living, might never have known this world, might never have been where she was at this moment, enjoying her life, worrying over Mum’s attitude towards her, her parents’ attitude, might never have known heartache or pleasure – ironic, but not to be thought of, in fact too fleeting to be clung to. In her place now, Mum might not have had so many children anyway.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Mum.’

  ‘If yer must.’

  Geraldine, gathering up her beautifully tailored jacket and her hat from Dickins & Jones in Regent Street, donned them, went to the back door and opened it. Mum asked out of the blue if she was keeping well, almost an afterthought, not having asked all the while she’d been here, and all the more hurtful because of it.

  ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, you take care of yerself
. Ain’t got long ter go now.’

  Geraldine searched her mother’s face. ‘You will be there when I go into hospital, won’t you? You’ll be there to see the baby?’

  ‘’Course I will. What makes yer think I won’t be? It’ll be me second grandchild. Mavis’s won’t be born till a month after yours. ’Course I’ll be there. Soon as yer start yer labour, get yer ’usband ter send us a telegram. We’ll be waitin’ for it.’

  Always your husband, seldom Tony, almost on purpose, spoiling the heartfelt sentiments she’d just uttered.

  ‘’Course, bein’ in ’ospital yer won’t ’ave need of yer mum fussin’ around. Not like at ’ome.’ Again the barbed remark spoiling what sentiment there had been.

  Her mother gave a deep sigh as she saw her out to the yard. ‘Don’t really expect I’ll be able ter get around ter seeing you before then. Might not see nothink of yer at all, unless yer ’usband wants ter bring yer in the car ter see us. It wouldn’t ’urt ’im. Of course we’d like ter see yer before the baby arrives.’

  All this was the longest Mum had spoken all morning. As if attempting to make up for the time lost, all in one swoop. She leaned forward for her daughter to kiss her goodbye but didn’t accompany it by an embrace, and this time her hands were not occupied with broom and dustpan.

  ‘I’ll give yer love to yer dad and tell ’im yer was sorry to ’ear about yer Aunt Vi. Take care going home. Don’t walk too fast. ’Ope yer don’t ’ave ter wait too long at the bus stop.’

  Once in Bow Road she would find a taxi outside Bow Road Station to take her home. But with thoughts of what that would cost possibly making her mother turn from her as seeing money thrown needlessly away, making enemies again, she said nothing.

  Nor had she said anything about what Tony was up to these days. She came away feeling she had mislaid something or rather that which she had wanted to unburden herself of was still up caught inside, leaving a strange empty feeling. She wanted to cry, very weepy these days, but not here in the street. This empty feeling was probably hunger. She was hungry and it was midday. She hadn’t even thought of staying with Mum for a bit to eat. Mum wouldn’t have begrudged her that, her tongue sharp, bitter at times, but she was never vindictive. Geraldine remembered that she hadn’t had breakfast either and she was now feeling famished. Famished and faint.

  She would have to find a coffee shop in Bow Road just to eat a bun, before finding a taxi. Bow Road seemed miles away yet it was only little more than a quarter of a mile.

  There would have been somewhere in Grove Road but it meant going past Tony’s shop. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her. It might be better to have gone the other way to Roman Road, plenty of coffee shops there, but that would mean retracing her steps. She felt confused, consumed by misery. The weight inside her was bearing down on her bladder, hurting her, making her want to wee again even though she’d been twice at Mum’s.

  With vision misting from the tears lying along the lower rims of her eyelids and her nose threatening to start streaming, she pulled her deep cloche hat even lower over her brows, thanking heaven for the current fashion and a now overcast sky that shielded her from passing glances.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time she reached the corner of Coborn Road with Bow Road she had a great need to sit down. She was beginning to wonder if she would indeed get as far as a café when she thought she heard her name being called as if from some way off.

  At first she thought it to be the coalman she had not long passed, rasping out his trade above the trundling of his laden coal cart as he led his horse down the road. She remembered the coal-dust-streaked face, the cap back to front with its leather shield draped over neck and shoulders, the trousers tied below the knees with leather thongs, the thick boots, the loose coat all black with coal dust. As she passed him her nose had filled with the salty tang of coal and the warm odour of his horse. But now above his rasping call was a lighter voice, distinct now, hailing her.

  ‘Geraldine … Wait! Geraldine!’

  Damn! The caller would see she’d been crying. They would want to stand and talk, and the way she was feeling at this moment, she’d more likely pass out in front of them, make a fool of herself.

  Blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she turned to the voice, ready to smile and make the ubiquitous excuse of having something in her eye, or maybe having a bit of a cold, and then say she was in a rush and, sorry, she had no time to chat.

  She was making up her mind about that when she realised it was Alan Presley belting towards her, raincoat flying, one hand holding his trilby firmly onto his head. It was he who’d called to her – all the more reason to make an excuse for her tearful appearance.

  In seconds he was beside her, just the tiniest bit out of breath from running. ‘I ’ad ter run like mad to catch you up. I saw yer from some way off an’ thought it was you so I broke into a sprint and it was you, thank God. I didn’t want ter be caught chasing after some female I didn’t know—’

  He stopped abruptly, for the first time noticing her dejected features. His grin dissolving, he bent to gaze into her face, still half hidden by her hat brim. ‘Are you orright? Yer’ve been crying. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s up,’ she said tersely but her throat rasped painfully.

  She couldn’t stand here. She felt she couldn’t stand at all. Her legs were beginning to go wobbly on her.

  He must have seen what was about to happen because his arm came around her, drawing her to him, taking her weight. ‘Fer God’s sake, Gerry, don’t faint on me. Yer as pale as a ghost.’

  She was leaning against him, her head drooping without strength on to his shoulder. Yet in the midst of her faint she was vaguely aware of the fact that they must look like two outrageous lovers, and out here in the street would draw disapproving looks from passers-by. This was not the done thing. That thought helped to return her to her senses, the receding world bouncing back as she became aware of how this must seem to others.

  She made an effort to take her own weight but he held on. ‘No, take it steady. Give yerself a bit of time,’ he was saying, so she let him continue to support her until she was slowly able to stand without support. He was gazing into her face, now unobstructed, her hat having been pushed up from her brow a little when her head had sunk onto his shoulder.

  Hastily she readjusted it but still he regarded her with concern. ‘Yer colour’s beginning ter come back, thank Gawd. Yer gave me quite a turn, yer did, collapsing on me like that an’ me just meetin’ yer after ages. But yer look all in, Gerry. What’s ’appened. You ain’t ’ad bad news or somethink?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m just overtired – tired and hungry. I’ve not had anything to eat today except for a biscuit and a cup of tea.’

  ‘What, no breakfast? No dinner?’ In the East End the midday meal was always called dinner, where she now called it luncheon. His brown eyes were studying her closely. ‘Ain’t broke, are yer? Down on yer uppers? You ain’t broke up wiv yer old man or anythink, ’ave yer? I can lend yer—’

  She laughed in spite of herself, but it was a weak little sound. ‘No, not broke. And me and Tony are fine. It’s just that … it’s just …’

  Without warning she burst into tears, they never being far removed from laughter, the two emotions travelling hand in hand like twins. This time they came in great, uncontrollable gulps. And again she was in Alan’s arms, being held tightly, and damn what passers-by might think.

  ‘It’s because you’re ’ungry and weak,’ he was crooning through her great, hiccupping gulps. ‘Should of eaten breakfast, you in your condition. If yer can make it, we’ll get yer somewhere where yer can get somefink inside yer. Yer’ll feel a lot better. Then yer can tell me all about it.’

  She was being guided along, his arm still around her until she could eventually walk unaided, if unsteadily, merely holding on to his arm. Even in her state she’d felt uneasy about him having his arm around her waist out in the street as though h
e’d just picked someone up, and in broad daylight too. Not only that, they’d not touched since she had decided between him and Tony and it felt strange just holding his arm, if only for support.

  The nearest café was but forty yards off, where Bow Road became the Mile End Road. It felt more like forty miles, each step an effort, she fighting weakness the whole way. It was a working men’s café, grubby, stinking of the all-pervasive smell of fried onions and sausages and overused frying fat, but to her it was a haven as Alan eased her down on one of the wooden benches, a couple of none-too-clean road menders moving up to make way for her.

  Feeling slightly sick she rested her elbows on the stained, green, baize-covered table top, her head bent on her two fists. Like this she could see her protruding stomach, and it occurred to her to wonder what the men in here must think – not that a pregnant woman had entered, but that a woman was sitting here at all, a café like this normally used by working men and far too grimy for any woman to eat in. Not only that, her clothes spoke of a well-groomed lifestyle. They must be wondering what she was doing here, the unsteadiness of her entry, the way she had been helped into a seat by the man who’d brought her in, the waxen colour of her cheeks making them wonder even more. They were probably having a field day. Well let them, she didn’t care; all she wanted was to be home, to sink down on her soft sofa, close her eyes and sleep in quiet surroundings away from this echoing boom of men’s voices, the clash of plates, the shouts from the counter hand – ‘Two ’Oly Ghosts’ (for years she’d known the rhyming slang for toast) ‘and two Rosy Leas!’ (this for tea) – and the nauseous smells coming from a probably foul kitchen with everything caked with fat residue. The very thought of that kitchen from where her tea and toast would come made her want to vomit.

  By the time Alan returned with the two cups of tea in thick china cups and two massive rounds of toast, often known as doorsteps, sitting on equally thick plates, she felt she couldn’t have taken a single bite.