The Dressmaker's Daughter
Page 6
‘After I’d bought it Joe said he didn’t like it,’ May replied.
‘Our Lizzie, it’ll look a treat on you.’
‘Good. I can hardly wait for next Sunday to wear it.’
*
The dairy house, where the Clanceys lived, was a large detached house with no foregarden, but set well back from the footpath. A cobbled yard lay at the rear, accessed from the street by an entry broad enough to drive a horse and cart through with ease. On one side of the yard was a row of brick-built outbuildings, one of which was a stillroom for making butter, the rest for stabling the horses and garaging the carts. On the other side was the door to the scullery. Behind the brewhouse stood the privy, the ‘miskin’ where they deposited all their rubbish and a hen coop. When Jack Clancey first started up his business he kept cows in the field at the back of the house to provide the milk for his business. A picket fence and gate separated it from the yard. These days, because home-produced milk was unreliable, only the two horses grazed it now, accompanied occasionally by an odd vagrant hen in search of extra food.
In the front room, standing in the square bay window looking out over Cromwell Street, was Jesse Clancey. An hour earlier he’d watched Lizzie Bishop, in all her Sunday finery, walk towards Hill Street with another girl and a young man, no doubt heading for Oakham Road and a stroll through the meadows beyond. He was hoping they would return by the same route so he could catch sight of her again. Every time he saw the girl she looked more and more bewitching. Today she wore a cream dress with pale green trimmings, narrow skirted, with a high neck collar, under a cream three-quarter length coat. She looked so beautiful, her hair swept up on top of her head in the pompadour style and crowned with a fashionable cream wide-brimmed hat topped with pink roses.
If only there were some way of making Lizzie interested in him he would give up Sylvia Dando. Oh, Sylvia was a nice enough girl, and she’d make somebody a good wife, but not him. Sylvia was the same as all the others; somehow she failed to spark off any excitement in him, physical or mental. For him to even consider marriage there had to be some glimmer of passion, of yearning for her, of yearning to be with her. But he did not yearn for Sylvia. He’d courted her for many months now and they’d progressed beyond canoodling, and still he didn’t yearn for her. But he did yearn for this little Lizzie Bishop, Sylvia’s second cousin. Perhaps it was because she was unattainable; because she might think he was too old at twenty-six and because their respective mothers had always been at odds. At least, that was what he assumed; he did not know it for certain.
But in any case, what would her mother think if he were to suddenly start walking out with her, little more than a child at seventeen? Like everyone else, she would no doubt consider the age gap unseemly; she would accuse him of cradle-snatching. Yet all he wanted was to love her and for her to return his love. He wanted to marry her, to be the father of her children, and provide her with a decent standard of living; a standard of living befitting a girl so worthy.
Lizzie Bishop was becoming an obsession. She was the only reason he still went to church, albeit accompanied these days by Sylvia. And who would credit it? Who would believe that he could be longing for this Lizzie Bishop, whom he had watched grow up from a skinny little kid to this vision of femininity? Who would believe it, when he had a pretty girl like Sylvia on his arm, who evidently thought the world of him?
The problem was that there was never an occasion when he might meet Lizzie Bishop to tell her how he felt, or to ask her if she would like to step out with him. Even if there were, would she listen? If only he could find some way of making his feelings known before somebody else claimed her, for somebody surely would, and soon. Otherwise, how could she ever know how he felt? And, knowing, she might even respond positively …
All at once his pulse rate quickened. Lizzie came into view again with her two companions, strolling leisurely towards the dairy house. The other girl was holding the lad’s arm proprietarily. Jesse stood back a step out of the bay to avoid being seen, and watched from behind the huge aspidistra as Lizzie conversed intently with her friends, her eyes lighting up her lovely face which was vibrant with expression. He could hardly fail to notice her feminine curves contrasted against the darker lining of her open coat, the gentle swell of her breasts giving way to her rib-cage, to her flat stomach. He could hardly fail to notice her small waist; the youthful slenderness of her hips; the way she held her head; the way she walked. This yearning was turning, irrevocably turning, into an intolerable ache.
Then, the very antithesis of Lizzie appeared from the opposite direction. It was Phyllis Fat. He watched as they met and talked.
‘… and the new vicar said as it’d have to be the Sunday after,’ Phyllis was saying. She was telling Lizzie that she was getting married because she’d missed three months in a row.
‘Who are you marrying then, Phyllis? Is it somebody we know?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a chap as works with me, name Hartwell Dabbs.’
‘I haven’t heard the banns read out in church. But yours’ll be the second wedding I’ve heard about this week.’
‘Oh. Who was the first, then?’
‘Jack Hardmeat, the butcher, of all folks. He’s getting married next month. Nobody knew he was even courting.’
‘Jack ’Ardmate? And who’ll be the third, d’you think? They say as everything comes in threes.’
Daisy cast a hopeful glance at Jimmy.
But Lizzie nodded towards the dairy house and all eyes followed. ‘Jesse Clancey, for a guess. My Aunt Sarah says it won’t be long before him and our Sylvia are wed.’
Chapter 5
Jesse Clancey knew enough of Lizzie Bishop’s comings and goings to know that most Wednesdays she finished work at one o’ clock. So, this last Wednesday of September he decided to do likewise. He’d delivered his empty milk churns, all rinsed out and clean, to the railway station for return to the farm that supplied them, and waited in the road known as Waddam’s Pool, hoping to catch her as she walked home. She should be passing him in ten or fifteen minutes, assuming she stopped to gaze into a few shop windows on the way.
The day was overcast and chilly. The best of the summer had long gone. All they had to look forward to was a dubious October, with more dense fogs to herald the bleak winter. While he waited, Jesse debated with Urchin, his big, dappled grey horse, yet again, the wisdom and the folly of this ploy. He’d been preoccupied with thoughts of how best to approach Lizzie these last few days, till he was sick of thinking about it and the only way to get some relief, and some sleep, was to actually tell her how he felt. She might turn him down flat but, at least, he’d have tried. If he never tried he would never know what his chances were.
‘I’m old enough to know better,’ he muttered dejectedly, confiding in the horse. ‘I could end up looking a proper fool – she’s little more than a child.’ Even if Lizzie fell over herself to accept him he could hardly expect the emotions of one so young to remain serious and constant. It was a major concern. ‘If some fresh-faced, handsome, young lad came along I doubt she’d be able to resist him; and where would that leave me?’
The horse, sensing his unease, nodded as if in agreement and fidgeted, scraping his huge hooves uneasily on the cobbles. Jesse’s confidence drained away as this train of thought persisted, and so did his resolve. He rested his back against the side of his milk float, loosely holding the reins, contemplating his stupidity and feeling strangely conspicuous to the world, as if the world was listening and could hear his thoughts.
There was no point to all this. He would make a move and return home.
Then, in that same moment, he saw Lizzie Bishop walking towards him with Joe Bishop’s young wife. The sight of her smiling eyes immediately revived his spirits and rekindled his ardour. ‘By Christ, she’s here, mate.’ He slapped the horse’s flank affectionately. ‘And looking as pretty as a picture. Damn it, let’s have a go, eh? I’ll try me luck after all, what d’you say, old mate?
If I end up looking a fool forever, so what? If I never try, I’ll never win her.’
So he waited till the two girls reached him.
‘Morning, Mrs Bishop. Morning, Lizzie,’ he acknowledged nervously, touching his cap.
Lizzie returned the greeting and, anticipating no further conversation with Jesse, was about to walk on.
But May stopped to pass the time of day. ‘You mean good afternoon, Mister Clancey,’ she said with a hint of good humoured sarcasm. ‘Mornin’ passed above an hour ago.’
‘You’re right, you know.’ For effect, he took out his fob watch and glanced at it briefly. ‘You lose all track of time on this job, And I’d be obliged if you’d call me Jesse, Mrs Bishop. Everybody else does.’
‘If you promise to call me May, instead of Mrs Bishop … Mr Clancey.’
He felt the tension slough off him like a skin when the girls laughed, and he smiled openly. ‘Sounds fair enough to me. Look, I’m on my way home. Can I give you both a lift?’
‘Yes, if you like, Jesse. Better to wear out the horse’s shoes, eh, Lizzie?’
‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’ He mounted the float and took the reins. ‘Seems a shame to walk when I’m passing your front doors.’
This was fine as far as it went, but Jesse had not reckoned on May Bishop’s presence. It occurred to him, though, how much more difficult his task might be if she were not there. This at least was a start.
The two girls raised their skirts a little to step up onto the two wheeled float. ‘Giddup!’ Jesse called, and flicked the reins, causing Lizzie and May to lurch slightly as the ensemble pitched forward. They stood each side of him clutching the sides of the cart with one hand, their baskets with the other. He remained silent for a few seconds, looking straight ahead, desperately trying to devise some way of leaving May at her front door but keeping Lizzie on his float.
‘How’s our Sylvia, Jesse?’ Lizzie enquired. She had put down her basket and was holding onto her hat to prevent the wind taking it.
‘Sylvia? Oh, not too bad … I suppose.’
His lack of enthusiasm prompted May to turn down the corners of her mouth as a signal of surprise to Lizzie. ‘Any sign of you getting wed yet?’ She hoped he might give more away.
‘Huh! None at all. If I said it was serious between us I’d be telling a lie.’
‘Oh, you do surprise me, Jesse. Her mother’s already got you married off and no two ways. That’s right, ain’t it, Lizzie?’
‘To hear her talk it’s all cut and dried.’
Jesse shook his head. ‘She shouldn’t take too much for granted.’
The horse clopped on, steadily pulling the cart up the hill, its big grey head swaying rhythmically from side to side. Lizzie’s thoughts turned inevitably to the Clanceys’ horse that killed her father. This wasn’t the same one, she knew, but there was a bizarre irony in that its replacement was now drawing her home as if that incident five and a half years ago had never happened. She felt like mentioning it, but maybe it was best left unsaid.
Jesse’s comments came as a shock to Lizzie, since she’d always believed that Sylvia and he were devoted. ‘I’m surprised as well, Jesse,’ she said chattily. ‘I was only saying to some of my friends the other day as I expected you to be getting wed after Jack Hardmeat.’
‘You know who he’s marrying?’ he said.
‘No. We never even knew he was courting.’
‘He’s marrying Annie Soap’s youngest daughter, Maria. The one with the black hair.’
‘The one they call the Black Maria?’ Lizzie asked.
Jesse chuckled. ‘That’s her. I don’t know if they’ve got to get wed, but it all seems a bit sudden.’ He turned to May. ‘You must be about due to start a family, hadn’t you, May? You’ve been wed, what? … Nearly a year now, is it?’
May whooped with amusement at his candour. ‘Well I reckon everybody must think it’s about time, Jesse, but believe me, there’s no sign yet. Anyroad, there’s no rush. I’m only twenty-two, you know.’
‘’Course. You’re only a babby yourself yet, May.’
They travelled on in silence for a while, into St John’s Road. By Ivy Morris’s fish and chip shop they turned into Brown Street, where most of Kates Hill’s shops were. Lizzie quietly studied Jesse. He seemed more handsome each time she saw him. He was always well groomed, clean, and he always wore a clean collar and a necktie, even for work. His eyes revealed such a look of sincerity in their blue grey sparkle, and she still couldn’t help thinking how different things might have been. She knew she shouldn’t, because of Sylvia, but she couldn’t help this admiration she still had for Jesse. No, it was more than just admiration; it was a hankering. She felt a warm pleasure, a sense of awe, being in his company so unexpectedly, and was strangely gratified when she noticed him glancing at her from time to time. Yet he seemed tense, despite his easy conversation.
As they turned into Cromwell Street, they saw some activity in one of the shops. During the day it had been gutted.
‘Iky’s opening a fish and chip shop now,’ Jesse explained. ‘It’ll be handy, eh?’
Iky Bottlebrush’s real name was Isaac Knott, but he’d been given his nickname years ago. For years he’d owned the shop, a small grocery, but had provided plated hot dinners for the workers at the brass foundries and the other little factories in the immediate streets. Venturing into fish and chips seemed a logical progression, and everybody wished him well, since he was well liked.
Jesse called the horse to a halt outside Lizzie’s home. The two girls thanked him for the lift and turned to step down. Jesse braced himself, about to suggest that Lizzie stay on the float so he could talk to her. He could say he needed her advice on what to buy Sylvia for her birthday present. He said: ‘May, I wonder if you’d mind …’
‘No need to mention it, Jesse,’ May said, interrupting him as she and Lizzie stepped down. ‘I’ll not breathe a word to a soul. Nor will Lizzie. Will you, Lizzie?’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Give Sylvia our love, just the same. We don’t see much of her these days. Not since you’ve been courting her, keeping her so busy. Why don’t you and Sylvia come and visit us, Jesse? Bring her round for supper one of the nights. Joe would like that.’
‘Eh? … Oh, I will.’ He sighed with frustration. It must be God’s will. He must accept that Lizzie Bishop would never be his, and perhaps be thankful for it. Fate was preventing a liaison; and fate had prevented him making a fool of himself in the nick of time. How could he reasonably expect Lizzie to have anything to do with him when he was Sylvia’s sweetheart? They were a close family and no decent girl would stoop that low. In any case, any girl who would steal her own cousin’s man was not the sort he wanted. It was thus an impossible situation; if this girl, whom he yearned for so much, was prepared to take him under those circumstances, he ought not to want her for having him.
‘Cheerio then,’ he called and flicked the reins once more. As the horse moved on, Jesse turned and waved, and the two girls stood, waving back, smiling graciously. ‘There. I told you I was a bloody fool,’ he muttered to the horse, who responded with a turbulent emission of wind.
May chuckled as they walked into the entry. ‘If that was Jesse he needs a dose of liquid paraffin.’
‘May!’ Lizzie admonished with a snigger. ‘It was the horse.’
‘Let’s hope and pray as it was … But fancy that Jesse not being interested in marrying Sylvia, Lizzie.’
‘I know. It’s a bit of shock.’
‘Not half as much of a shock to us as it’ll be to Sarah. God, there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘He might not say anything, May. He might just go along with it – for years.’
They opened the door and went in the house. Eve was sitting in her usual chair, but she was pale, her eyes were rolling, and she seemed to be fighting for breath. Lizzie was at once alarmed.
‘Mother, Mother, what’s up?’ She went straight to her and felt her forehead.
‘Sit there nice and quiet, Mother. May and me can put the sandwiches up. Have a biscuit to keep you going.’ Lizzie went to the cupboard at the side of the fire grate and took out the biscuit barrel. She opened it and put it in her mother’s lap.
‘The sandwiches am already done, our Lizzie,’ Eve remarked. ‘They’m under a cloth on the shelf at the top of the cellar steps.’
May brought them to the table.
‘D’you think I ought to send for the doctor, May?’
‘It’ll do no harm.’ May cast a glance at Eve who was tucking into her meal ravenously. ‘Is she often like this?’
‘Lately she says she starts to get weak just before mealtimes. She eats like a horse, yet I’m certain she’s losing weight. And drink? All the time she’s drinking water.’
‘It don’t sound right, Lizzie. We’d best fetch the doctor. I’ll get Joe to fetch him tonight after he’s had his tea.’
‘I’ll go and fetch him myself when I’ve had my dinner.’
‘No, leave it till tonight … I should … From what I can hear of Donald Clark you won’t catch him at his surgery yet awhile. He’ll be in The Shoulder of Mutton. You know he likes a drink.’
That afternoon Eve seemed to improve, though she had little of her usual energy. The two girls blackleaded the grate as usual and, when they lit the fire, the first thing Eve requested was that the kettle be put on to boil for a pot of tea. Lizzie scrutinised her mother carefully for other signs that she was unwell. It was not till then that she noticed how often she was getting up to go to the privy.
*
It was at about eight o’ clock that evening when Joe returned to his mother’s house with young Dr. Donald Clark, who had recently taken over his father’s practice. Donald was twenty-seven and a likeable young man. He wasn’t especially handsome, but neither was he repulsive. He had wavy, reddish hair, a ruddy complexion and a substantial nose. There was a gap between his two front teeth, which, when he smiled, seemed to enhance his affability. As they rode together to the Bishops’ house on the ancient dog cart that old Doctor Clark had always used, Joe anxiously described Eve’s symptoms. Donald knew the family well, and Eve had fed him often enough when he and Ted were pals. He was thus concerned about her, and eager to help.