Kate's heart sank. She'd moved. Was this why Maggie had not replied to her letters? Had she ever received them? But it didn't explain why Maggie herself had never written.
Then the other information sank in. 'Sam? Thieving? What do you mean?'
'What I say! Go and ask at the police station. They've just put him away for twelve months. Should have been years.'
'Where did Maggie go when she left you? And how long ago was it?'
'I haven't time to waste answering your questions! Once they left my rooms that was the last I wanted to know. But I did hear a rumour they were so ashamed of what he did they left the city. Went north of Birmingham, Walsall, I think.'
Walsall! Where Phyllis now lived. Kate turned away, knowing she'd get no more information from this unpleasant woman. She was too weary to try and think why Maggie would go to a place she'd never before visited, and then a faint memory returned. Was it Walsall her first husband came from? Or had it just been mentioned one day when she was a tiny child, too young to take in the sense?
Before she rushed off on what might be a wild goose chase she would make some more enquiries in Coventry. Thanks to Mrs Thomson she had enough to rent a cheap room for a couple of days, and to get to Walsall. There perhaps Phyllis would help her find a job, and she could begin to look for her family.
*
Kate could find no trace of Maggie in Coventry. At the police station they remembered Sam, but had no record of where Maggie was now. They did, however, give her the address of the house where Sam had been living when he was arrested. Hopes high, Kate went there, to discover it was now inhabited by an elderly couple with two grown-up daughters. They did not know Maggie, or anything about her.
She thought of approaching the factories, but as she had no idea where either Maggie or Sam had worked, she realised this was an impossible task. Perhaps there were fewer schools, but the first two she tried were so unhelpful she decided she was wasting her time. There was the prison. She dreaded going there, but it was the only lead she had.
Sam was there, but she was told no one had ever visited him. This was unlike Maggie, and supported the idea that she had been so ashamed she had moved right away from the area. Kate decided she had spent enough time in Coventry, and she must go to Walsall.
She set off early the next day, and arrived to find the centre of Walsall bustling. The busy market which stretched up the winding hill reminded her of the Bull Ring. At least there were plenty of people around to ask about leather factories.
'Eh, chuck, they'm all over town,' she was told. 'Tek any street, and you'll find several.'
That was not a great deal of help, but Kate began to trudge round the streets which led off the market. Phyllis said they had rooms nearby, and worked a short distance away.
At the first factory, which made saddles, she asked if a Phyllis Brown worked there, and then realised that Phyllis would now be known by her married name.
'At least, that was her name before she married. Her husband is a foreman and she works in the same factory. They've only been married a couple of weeks.'
He was sorry, but couldn't help. It was the same at the next workshop, where they were fashioning belts and handbags. Kate inwardly berated herself for not having gone to Kingstanding first and asked Phyllis's family for the address. If she found no trace, she would do that. And then, as she was thinking she ought to be looking for a room instead, her luck changed.
'Phyllis? Just married, you say? Here, Frank, someone's asking for your missus.'
A big, curly-haired young man came over and smiled. 'You want Phyllis? Friend of hers, are you? I don't remember seeing you at the wedding.'
'No, I didn't go. We'd only recently met. Please can I speak to her?'
'Come into the office. She'll be finished in ten minutes, and then you can talk properly. I'm Frank Stocks.'
Kate waited, limp with relief. Through the glass window she could see several tables in the middle of the big room where men were stretching the cured leather skins, then cutting them into shapes with shears. At the back was what looked like a big stamping press, noisy as it relentlessly moved up and down.
Round the outer part of the room were treadle sewing machines, and on each was a pile of the cut shapes. The women working the machines would pick up one shape, fold it over, put smaller shapes with it, and swiftly feed it through the machine before snapping off the thread and dropping it into a basket beside them. They were making gloves, Kate realised.
In a few minutes a whistle blew. The press stopped and it was quiet for a moment before the workpeople began to talk and laugh. They packed away their work. The men straightened up their shears and a few other tools, the women finished the gloves they were engaged on, then stretched their arms above their heads to relieve the stiffness. Now Kate could see Phyllis, at one of the furthest machines, and Frank Stocks walking towards her. He said something and Phyllis looked across at the office, smiled and waved. Kate breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't mind Kate coming.
*
By the end of September Daphne was eager to start at the University. It had been intensely boring in Scotland, having to pretend admiration at everything Stella showed her. Nor had she liked tramping across miles of heather to join the men shooting grouse for uncomfortable picnic lunches. There might have been salmon and champagne, but that didn't make up for the other things, the midges and the endless jollity. She felt sorry for the birds, piled in heaps in the back of a cart until it was full and could be driven down to the village.
Daphne had expected to be eating grouse and venison every night, but for some strange reason neither was ever served. Stella laughed at her.
'Grouse tastes horrid! The men just enjoy shooting, and the birds are put on a train for London, where the poor townies don't know any better and think they have a delicacy.'
They had returned to Birmingham at the end of the month, but September had not been much better. Robert was still in Paris, many of her other friends were away, and there was nothing to interest her.
Robert had been back on just two brief visits by the end of November. He did not seek Daphne out, and she only heard from her mother that he had been long after he'd returned.
'Mr Manning seems completely well again by now, so Robert is concentrating on the Paris factory. They are changing production to make more aeroplane parts, I hear. The world seems to be going mad.'
Daphne did not want to think about the problems of Germany and Italy and Spain. They were too far distant. When a third year student, Brian Deacon, asked her out she went. No doubt Robert was enjoying himself with a Parisian beauty, she thought miserably.
To her surprise she found she enjoyed Brian's company. He was amusing, liked to dance, and they enjoyed the same films and theatre shows. He wasn't Robert, but he made a good substitute, and might even, she thought, be used to make Robert jealous.
Norman was getting married in December, in Solihull. At least they did not have the same sort of fuss they had had to endure at home for Stella's wedding, Daphne thought, and Robert would be home then. She would see him. Though Brian would not be at the wedding, she would contrive a meeting between the two men somehow. There would be other parties. Then she would be able to tell from Robert's attitude whether there was still hope for her.
*
'Miss Martins, could you take this special order to the George Hotel? It's a pair of flying gloves for a Mr Peter Llewellen who's staying there.'
Kate smiled at Mr Kirkham, who owned the factory, and carefully finished the glove she was machining. She'd seen the heavy gauntlets, but never before had the opportunity of meeting a real flyer. Suddenly the old longing to experience what it was like in an aeroplane, a dream she'd thought she had abandoned, flooded back.
'Straight away?' she asked. 'Or shall I go in my dinner break?'
'Now. I think the chap wants them for tomorrow, and I imagine it's freezing in those little planes in this weather. It's bad enough on the ground.'
She had to pass through the market to reach The George, which was in an open space at the foot of the hill, named, to Kate's bewilderment, The Bridge.
'There's no river,' she'd said to Phyllis and Frank soon after they had found her a room and a job in the same factory where they worked.
'There is, underneath,' Frank said. 'If there's a heavy snowfall you can see them shovelling the snow down the manhole covers, straight into the river.'
Though she had not, to her sorrow, found Maggie here, despite asking around and looking out for her whenever she was in the town, Kate was as content as she could be. She had a room in a house three doors from where Phyllis and Frank lived, and independence. She enjoyed her job, the smell of the leather and the supple feel of it under her hands. She was quick and careful, and was soon trusted with the finer skins. So far she had not been asked to do the thick, fur-lined flying gloves with their huge gauntlets, and she looked at them with interest as Mr Kirkham packed them up in a neat parcel.
'Make sure you give them to Mr Llewellen, don't leave them at the desk or he might not be given them soon enough. If you have to wait, never mind. I'll understand.'
It was market day, and Kate felt a brief twinge of nostalgia. She wondered how Hattie and Maggie were getting on together, wherever they were. Was Sam out of prison yet, and had he known where they were? Had Maggie taken him back, or had she vanished deliberately to get away from him? He was, Kate knew, a liability. Maggie would have a hard time of it on her own, but she could well be better off without Sam.
At The George a bell boy was sent to give Mr Llewellen a message, and Kate was told to wait in the foyer. Sooner than she expected he returned with a short, tubby man following.
'You have my gloves? Splendid! Splendid! I'm Peter Llewellen,' he said, taking the parcel and ripping off the paper, scattering shreds of it all over the floor. Kate, aware of the disapproving glance of the commissionaire, wanted to pick them up, but it seemed rude, a criticism of him, and it wasn't her job.
'I hope they are a good fit?'
Mr Llewellen was pulling them on eagerly, and nodding as he flexed his fingers. 'Perfect, perfect, soft as – yes, well, beautifully soft. Tell me, Miss – er – Miss, have you ever been up in an aeroplane? Wonderful feeling, soaring up into the clouds.'
'No, and I don't expect I ever will,' Kate replied. 'It must be marvellous.'
He suddenly turned and looked at her intently. 'You should. It's an experience everyone should have at least once. Let me see, tomorrow's Sunday? I imagine your employer, if it is Mr Kirkham, allows you to have one day a week off? Then you shall come with me and I will take you up in my own airborne chariot. I will abduct you into the skies, and you will never enjoy anything so much ever again. What's your name?'
'Kate,' she replied, before she thought. Then she decided that he was mad but harmless.
'Kate, short for Kathleen. no doubt. Meet me here at ten tomorrow morning. I will transport you into the ether. And don't worry about clothing, just wear the warmest things you have. I will lend you my sister's flying suit and boots and all the other paraphernalia. She lives near here, and I normally stay with her, but she's away at the moment. I can get them from her home.'
Kate tried to protest, knowing she ought to, but consumed with longing. He ignored her, insisting on escorting her back through the market to the factory. He chattered all the time, and most of it was unintelligible to Kate, for it seemed to be technical terms connected to aircraft. She was bemused. Had she been enchanted? Was this a dream? It couldn't be true, that her dearest wish was about to be granted.
At the factory door, when she turned to say farewell, he shook his head and pushed open the door. 'Go ahead, Miss Kate. I must see Mr Kirkham, he will vouch for me, tell you I am to be trusted.'
Mr Kirkham seemed as astounded as Kate when Mr Llewellen, without knocking, burst into his office.
'But he really is a gentleman, if rather odd, so if you want to trust yourself to one of those infernal machines made of matchsticks and strips of cotton, you'll be safe with him. I know he's reckoned a good flyer.'
Kate shook her head. She'd brought trouble on herself when she'd accepted a lift in a motor car. An aeroplane would be far worse. Yet for the rest of that day she wondered what it would be like to soar up into the clouds, to see the country below her, be too far away to distinguish people. That night she dreamt she was a bird, and when she woke on Sunday to hear the bells of St Matthew's church tolling she made up her mind. She would enjoy this adventure, this once in a lifetime opportunity.
*
Maggie arrived home one evening late in October to discover two men sitting in the single room they used as a kitchen and living room. Hattie was huddled on a stool in a corner, and she could hear the children in the bedroom, whimpering softly.
'What's going on?' she asked, dropping the bags of shopping just inside the door, as both men rose to their feet and stepped towards her.
They were both muscular, tough-looking, and their eyes were hard. The slightly taller one, who still wore his cap, spread out his hands in what could have been a conciliatory gesture if his features had relaxed into even a semblance of a smile.
'When's that beggar comin' 'ome?'
'What?' she asked warily, backing away until she was halted by the door. 'What do you mean?'
'Bleedin' Sam Pritchard. When's 'e comin' outta chokey?'
'How should I know? I hope he rots there!'
'Look, lady, 'e's due out soon. Don't try ter tell me yer don't know when.'
'It's true!' Maggie felt nothing. From the day Sam had been convicted she had tried to banish him from her thoughts, and she hoped she never had to see him again. She was coping on her own.
'Well, bleedin' find out, woman! Soon! We'll be comin' round ter see you till yer does find out!' the other man said, coming so close to Maggie that she could smell stale sweat, cigarettes, and the scented Brilliantine on his greasy hair.
'I don't see him, I don't want ter see him,' she said, edging away from him. But the room was small, little enough space around the furniture, and she was brought up short by the edge of the dresser.
'Well, missus, yer'd better ask 'im! Quick! And since 'e's not 'ere ter tell us, yer can do it for 'im. Where am they?'
'Where are what?' Maggie asked. This was a nightmare, and soon she'd wake up on the mattress she shared with the two youngest girls.
'Yer knows what! The things your blasted Sam hid, before the stupid fool was pinched.'
'I've no idea what you're on about. I never knew what Sam were doing until the police came.'
The spokesman jerked his head and the other man pounced on Maggie, grabbed her wrist, and spun her round to twist her arm behind her back. She bit back the cry of pain and glanced across to see whether the door was closed. The children must not hear her cry, they'd be terrified.
He saw her glance and grinned. 'Wanna keep them out of it? Then tell us what we want ter know.'
'I can't tell you what I don't know!'
He sighed. 'As yer pleases. When we've finished with you we'll start on the old un there, then the kids,' he said.
'They've done nothing. They can't know anything!
'But you do, and yer'll tell us when we get started again on the nippers.'
'Again?' Maggie struggled to get nearer the door into the bedroom. 'What have you done to my kids?'
'Nowt. Yet. But that gal o' yourn looks a tasty piece. Scrawny, but there's places where she'd fetch a good price. They like 'em young.'
'You can't do this!' Maggie began, but her arm was jerked and despite herself she screamed at the agony. 'I tell you, I dain't know what Sam were up to.'
'Aye, that's what yer tells us, but it ain't the truth.'
'What things?' she asked. 'How can I even guess if I don't know what the hell you're talking about?'
They all heard footsteps running down the stairs, and as they stopped and someone hammered on the door the men stepped back. Maggie, her arm released
, cradled it to her chest.
'Maggie, are you all right?' a man's voice demanded. 'Was it you screaming?'
She glanced at the men. What could she do? It was George Harriman, the neighbour from upstairs. He'd moved in just after she had, and as he came home at the same time as she usually did, along the same roads, he had carried her shopping on several occasions. But he was not nearly as big as these two. He worked in an office, if they attacked him he'd stand no chance.
Before she could decide what to do the leader of the pair stepped close to her. 'We're goin', but we'll be back. Find your Sam, and where 'e's stashed the stuff.'
He elbowed her out of the way and opened the door. George, who was several inches smaller, looked up at him, then tried to push past.
'Is Maggie all right? What was that scream?'
'Just the kids playing. We're friends of old Sam, came ter see how they all were.'
*
Peter, as he'd insisted she called him, had a small motor car. 'It's only a Ford Eight. I spend my money on flying, which is interesting, not my transport on the boring ground,' he explained. 'Pesky things, motor cars. They never respond as you expect them to. Rudder's in the wrong damn place.'
They drove out of the town, and Kate realised what Peter meant. His steering was erratic, the vehicle swung and slithered all over the road, and twice they only just avoided collisions. Peter shouted insults at the other drivers, turning round in his seat to glare at them, and once poking his head out of the window and shaking his fist at an inoffensive horse and cart when the horse, frightened of the noisy thing behind it, swerved out into Peter's path as he was overtaking it. He caused a man on a bicycle to dive for cover, and twice hit the kerbstones.
Kate remembered her drive with Robert, when nothing like this had happened. Could Peter really control an aeroplane?
When she realised they were heading in the direction of Sutton Coldfield she tensed. She never wished to return to the place where she had been so shamefully deceived. But Peter, who chatted non-stop about the glories of flying, distracted her, and she relaxed even more when he turned off that road and followed a narrow lane which brought them alongside a canal.
Can Dreams Come True? Page 20
