The Dressmaker's Daughter

by Nancy Carson

  ‘I’ve been in Calcutta these past eighteen months. I’ve finished me tour there now, though. I’m due to stop in this country a few months, then I’ll try for a posting to the Cape. I fancy the Cape.’

  ‘Didn’t you meet any nice, rich, colonial girls in India, Stanley?’ Lizzie asked, bursting with curiosity.

  Stanley shook his head. ‘Oh, there are some beautiful girls in India and no mistake. Not necessarily colonials either. Some of those Indian women are all right, I can tell you. None to compare with you, though, Lizzie. Not one.’

  Tom Dando ambled over. ‘I see as you’ve met our Lizzie’s chap, Stanley. Don’t try and entice him into the army, either. I’ve got great hopes as these two’ll mek it to the altar one day. Come on, then, eh? It’s about time we went in, else we’ll have the bloody vicar glaring at us. He’s a stickler for time, you know.’

  They walked through the lych gate towards the main door of the church, and Lizzie took Ben’s hand. The bells had stopped pealing, giving way to the sounds of the birds in the treetops, the pigeons cooing in the bell-tower and Ivor Danks’s pre-service musical endeavours on the organ filtering outside. Inside, they filed into a pew and, as she knelt on the hassock at her feet to mentally recite The Lord’s Prayer, Lizzie pondered Stanley. She’d been dreading this meeting but, finally, the ice had been broken and it hadn’t been too uncomfortable. But the sight of him still churned up her insides. This surprised and alarmed her. She was devoted to Ben, but just seeing Stanley made her feel all limp. While she was in no doubt that she was in love with Ben, and not still in love with Stanley, she could not deny she still fancied him. There was something about him that dangerously unbalanced her. Something entirely physical. His lips were still as alluring as ever – but she’d never kissed them properly. She still wondered how they would feel on hers, how his body, firm and muscular, would feel pressed against her in an ardent embrace. While she whispered her prayer, her face hidden, she tried to imagine it, feeling a pang of guilt that this wanton desire remained when the man she truly loved was kneeling by her side. She should be ashamed of herself. But she could not help it.

  *

  As summer rolled on, typically mixed in its weather, Lizzie paid considerable thought to the depth of her involvement with Ben. Seeing Stanley again had profoundly shaken her, and consequently aroused her guilt. She had to compensate. Ben was her sweetheart and, whilst she felt close to him spiritually, she felt that her commitment ought to be even stronger. There was one final element that she believed had the potential to bind them together irrevocably, spiritually and physically; that one final element which would ensure that Stanley Dando was forever shut out of her thoughts. And although Ben referred to it often enough he never actually pressured her into feeling that sex must be a part of their relationship at all costs.

  Any reluctance had been on her part. Yet it was not a reluctance in the sense that she was unwilling. Oh, she would be willing enough, but such activities prior to marriage went against all the established principles of respectability, propriety and common decency; virtues with which she’d been indoctrinated, and so naturally sought to uphold. Sex was reserved exclusively for marriage, within marriage, and according to some, was nothing to shout about anyway. She pondered the risks in earnest; the shame and the finger wagging if she became pregnant; the subsequent worry it would most certainly cause her mother, who had worried enough in the past. She anticipated that doing something she knew she should not do would plague her with feelings of guilt.

  But she realised she was judging herself by society’s standards. What she and Ben felt and did was between the two of them and nothing to do with society; and God willing, society would never know. However she behaved, she would be doing it out of sheer love and respect for Ben; to better their relationship; to add a deeper, more understanding dimension to it. So society and all its hypocritical conventions could go and hang.

  Naturally she had no idea of what to expect physically from full-blown lovemaking. Often she heard her friends talk about it – single girls who actually did it regularly – and their comments, whether sincere or merely driven by bravado, led her to believe that it must bring some sort of exotic, addictive pleasure to their lives, intense enough to negate entirely all concern for the attendant risks, whatever some might say.

  Lizzie recognised that she might be deemed young for that sort of thing, especially as she was considered too young to sensibly think of marriage. It was strange, though. If she were already married the question of her age would not be a concern. Legally she could be wed at sixteen; so, why was eighteen too young? She was old enough to bear children, so why should she be considered too young to indulge in the act that could conceive a child? She knew of girls who’d had babies at sixteen. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but it was possible they’d been indulging in sex even before the legal age of consent. All right, instances such as those might be frowned on, but at eighteen?

  She thought about discussing it with Ben, but dismissed that idea. It would hardly be conducive to a rational exchange. How rational could even Ben be when his opinion was so one sided? It would be like asking a starving man whether or not they should dine together. In any case, there was nothing he could say that might significantly alter her opinion. The more she considered it, the clearer it became: it was time to break with convention and long-held principles, and allow Ben to make love to her, body and soul.

  The 12th of September provided an ideal opportunity: May and Joe held a party to celebrate Eve’s sixtieth birthday. The usual friends and neighbours were invited and drink was once again readily available at Joe’s expense. During the celebrations, Lizzie whispered to Ben that it might be a nice idea to step out into the fresh air. He was more than ready to comply, not least because Albert Crump had been extolling the virtues of temperance to him for a solid half hour, when he was already aware of the vices of excessive drink as exemplified by his late, unlamented father. So they made their excuses, saying they were going for a walk. They walked down the entry to the street and Lizzie took Ben’s hand. They turned right, as if heading for The Junction, but Ben was surprised when Lizzie tugged him gently into the next entry.

  ‘I thought we were out for a walk,’ he said.

  ‘That was your walk.’ Her resolute smile masked her nervousness. She took the key out of her handbag, unlocked the back door and opened it. As they entered the house she turned and smiled at Ben self-consciously, feeling her colour come up. She wondered whether he realised what she was up to and a wave of reticence washed over her. But she had come this far; it would look peculiar if she suddenly changed direction. So when Ben shut the door she put the key in the lock and turned it.

  It wasn’t yet dark and the greying dusk infiltrated the house, rendering colours dim and indistinguishable. Lizzie leaned submissively against the back door, and Ben, hearing the key turned in the lock, swivelled round to face her. It was light enough yet for him to see the tantalising, compliant look in her beautiful eyes; a look he’d never seen before, but which he instantly recognised. So this was the moment he’d longed for. He stepped forward and put his hands to her slender waist. Her skin felt warm and smooth beneath her cotton blouse, and his heart started drumming in his ears. As he kissed her hungrily, he could smell the sweet softness of her perfume.

  She trembled with anticipation, and sighed, breaking off their caress for just a second. Then, she put her hands to his head to draw his mouth hard on hers. Her desire was fuelled as much by the forbidden nature of what she envisaged, as by the sensuality of Ben’s lips. Her heart seemed to be leaping out of her body at the prospect of tasting real physical love; and the expectation fed her lust.

  Ben undid the buttons at the front of her blouse with a new confidence and, experiencing no resistance, in itself unique, allowed his hand to wander inside. For the very first time he savoured the silky, smooth skin of her breasts.

  Her breath was faltering and her parted lips found his again for a few mo
re delectable seconds. ‘Oh, I want you. I do want you … Do you want me, Ben?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he uttered inadequately.

  ‘Undress me, then. Take me.’

  He looked behind him, unsure. The fire, banked up with slack and potato peelings, was burning slowly in the grate. Around the scrubbed, wooden table were three chairs and, next to them, Eve’s high-backed chair, about two feet from the brass fender. Almost touching was the horsehair sofa, and little space between the back of that, the bottom stair and the middle door to its left.

  ‘What, here?’ He was afraid of losing the moment and almost panicked. ‘There’s no room.’

  ‘No, you fool. Upstairs.’ She was unwavering now in her resolve.

  They climbed hurriedly up the narrow, winding staircase, and Ben was careful to shut the stairs door behind him. The light was even dimmer in the stair-well, but he saw her hand extended down, and he took it, stumbling at the bend where the stairs were at their narrowest. Lizzie gripped his hand tightly, momentarily, and they both laughed at his awkwardness, releasing some of the tension.

  Once in her bedroom, Lizzie turned to face him, her blouse unfastened, half in, half out of her skirt. Ben gently slid it off her shoulders so that it hung around her waist, held only by her cuffs. He kissed her neck and his teeth scratched her flesh slightly, sending shudders down her spine, making her whole body tingle. She unfastened the cuffs and her blouse fell to the floor, then she undid her skirt before her arms went round his waist and her hands roamed over his buttocks. She wriggled, and her skirt slipped over her petticoat to the floor. The pace was quickening inexorably and, to assist him, she took off her petticoat herself. Ben’s hands ventured inside the waistband of her drawers and slid them down, thankful that she had no need of stays. He lifted her chemise and felt the firm, warm flesh of her backside.

  ‘Come on, then, take your clothes off,’ she whispered, aware that she sounded thoroughly brazen, but trembling inside all the same, for this was deadly serious. ‘I’m getting into bed.’

  Ben fumbled with his jacket, then his trouser buttons, anxious to divest himself of all his clothes before Lizzie changed her mind. She, meanwhile, removed her stockings and pulled her chemise over her head, and he had the first glimpse of her slender, naked body, pale as porcelain in the half light. Hurriedly he pulled off his shoes and his trousers, but left his socks on to save time. He struggled frustratingly with his necktie, clumsily removed the stud from the front of his collar. He shed his shirt, then his vest, and then his long johns. They jumped into bed simultaneously and, at once, Lizzie grabbed him for warmth, for reassurance, and for the new sensation of feeling his actual flesh, smooth, firm, and sensuous against her own. She had never imagined it might feel this good.

  They kissed frenetically, hands urgently exploring yet unfamiliar hills and valleys, lingering here and there to savour some fascinating mound or crevice. Ben eased himself onto her, feeling her breasts yield sensually against his own bare chest. She parted her legs, and he attempted unsuccessfully to enter her. Aware that he needed as much help as herself, she took him and guided him to her, her breath coming in thrilled, short gasps. The pain made her wince, and he withdrew, anxious not to hurt her, but she coaxed him back immediately, more slowly, deliberately, determined to withstand any discomfort. And soon, they were rocking gently with soft vocal sighs and words of undying love … The pain was gone, drowned in the rising tide of emotion.

  Chapter 9

  In August, Joe and May Bishop called at the surgery of Donald Clark, at May’s insistence, to discuss with him the possible causes for her failing to get pregnant. Donald was intrigued, and very attentive in response to this unusual type of consultation.

  ‘So how long have you been married now?’ he asked, dipping his pen into his inkwell, ready to jot down a few notes.

  ‘Over two and a half years, Donald,’ May answered.

  He scratched it down. ‘Mmm … Well, that’s not an excessively long time, I don’t think,’ he counselled, looking up at them again. ‘Many couples go much longer than that before the wife conceives. I shouldn’t worry yet, if I were you.’

  ‘Well, we ain’t worried exactly,’ Joe chipped in. ‘Just a bit surprised as May ain’t caught yet. We want kids, see. We just wondered if there might be something wrong.’

  ‘Certainly we can’t rule out the possibility.’ Donald put down his pen and sat back in his leather chair. ‘But, at this stage, I wouldn’t be looking for anything wrong.’

  ‘It does seem funny, though,’ May said. ‘We are fairly … you know … regular … in bed, like.’

  ‘You have to give it time, May. Human beings are not like rabbits.’

  ‘Yes, but how much time?’

  ‘Another couple of years wouldn’t be amiss. You’re both still young.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want to have to wait till we’m old,’ Joe quipped.

  ‘Well, of course, Joe, I understand that.’

  ‘But could there be a problem, Donald?’ It was May who asked.

  ‘There could be. And any problem, such as there might be, could lie with either of you. In you, May, obstruction could be the cause – an unruptured hymen, perhaps.’

  Joe scoffed. ‘Well there ain’t much fear of that, Donald. Christ!’

  ‘Is your monthly visitor regular, May?’

  ‘Like clockwork.’

  ‘Hmm … I’m not suggesting for a minute that this is the case, but an abnormality of the cervix could obstruct the passage of sperm – or it could be the fallopian tubes. The fallopian tubes are thin tubes on each side of the uterus through which May’s eggs travel from her ovaries, Joe,’ Donald explained. ‘They might possibly be occluded.’

  ‘May’s eggs?’

  ‘Yes, Joe. May’s eggs.’

  ‘May don’t lay eggs. She ain’t a blasted fowl.’

  Donald smiled patiently. ‘Not in the sense that a hen lays eggs, Joe, but her reproductive system manufactures them just the same – tiny ones. Those eggs have to be fertilised by your sperm before a baby can be conceived. Other uterine anomalies may play a role in infertility, besides. An internal examination might reveal something … if I deem it necessary.’

  Joe looked around the surgery. The sight of rubber tubes, forceps, tweezers, pliers, funnels, sample bottles, syringes and sundry appliances for purposes unimaginable, was intimidating; and the picture invading his mind of it all being used upon, or inserted into, his poor May made him feel queasy. He imagined them being probed here and there, like skewers into pork, and May shrieking with pain. And Donald’s words all sounded so surgical, a million miles away from the sensuous, loving performing of the sex act. Joe suddenly felt nauseous, and ran his finger round the inside of his collar.

  ‘Have you ever had mumps, Joe?’

  ‘Mumps? Not to me knowledge. Mother would’ve told me.’

  Donald was beginning to enjoy this. He was surprised to detect some squeamishness in Joe, who was normally full of bluster. ‘An obstruction in the sperm passageways can account for infertility in men, you know, Joe.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes … Perhaps a congenital defect. This can usually be rectified by surgery, though.’

  ‘Surgery? What’s involved with that, then?’ Joe was noticeably paler. He inhaled deeply. It felt so hot in this surgery.

  ‘It means making an incision or two in your scrotum, snipping a tube here and there and relieving any blockage. Then we’d stitch it all back together again. It would all heal up as pretty as a picture in two or three weeks. Four at most … with minimal pain, and minimal discomfort.’

  Joe shuddered and pulled a face. ‘Oh, God … I don’t fancy that, Donald.’

  ‘In all probability it wouldn’t be necessary. Don’t dwell on it.’ He turned to May. ‘Now, May – I suggest that …’

  There was a dull thud on the floor. May looked to her left from whence the sound had originated, to see Joe lying in a heap on the worn linoleum. She turned to the doctor
in alarm.

  Donald laughed mischievously. ‘I think he’s passed out, May. Sorry, I didn’t know he was tickle-stomached.’

  *

  Love-making was now a part of Lizzie’s and Ben’s staple diet. It usually took place in the front room, on the hearth, or half on and half off the settee, after Eve had gone to bed. To Lizzie’s surprise, she experienced no guilty feelings. On the contrary, the forbidden nature of performing this increasingly gratifying act before marriage made it all the more exciting. Not that they were likely to be caught: Eve was never quiet when she retired, and getting out of bed again was itself always accompanied by many early warning creaks and bumps, before ever she might have begun descending the stairs. On Saturday evenings, when Eve went out with Tom and Sarah, they enjoyed the safe, comparative luxury of her bedroom. Lizzie would have to be pregnant for anybody to know what they were doing, and have a belly big enough to show that she was. And Ben was as noble as his self-control would allow him to be when it came to taking care that Lizzie didn’t get pregnant. Over the ensuing months, though, their passion did overwhelm them on occasions and she had several worrying weeks; but they amounted to nothing, and she put the delay in her monthly bleeding down to simply worrying about it, and duly counted her blessings.

  So, as their relationship reached new heights of intimacy, Lizzie and Ben told their respective families in September that they were engaged to be married and, subject to Eve’s consent, the wedding was to be in six months time on Lizzie’s twentieth birthday. The decision to set a date had been largely precipitated by Ben’s having been given the job he’d wanted for so long – that of ladle man at Holcroft’s Foundry. Both families were delighted and straight away started planning what they were going to wear. Jimmy Powell was to be best man, Daisy Foster was to be bridesmaid, and they were the only two people outside the two families to be invited to the wedding. There was to be be a party later on, of course, when more folk would come. Eve was beside herself with joy, only too pleased to give her consent.