by Nancy Carson
‘Mother says I’m to have a white satin wedding dress,’ Lizzie told Ben.
‘White?’ he chuckled. ‘If only she knew!’
As autumn turned into winter, so the pace of the arrangements quickened. Christmas came and went and would have been uneventful, except that May was upended in their entry on the previous Sunday morning by one of Jack ’Ardmate’s terrified pigs trying to escape slaughter. She suddenly found herself on her backside, her best Sunday hat over her eyes and dirt over her best coat. Come bed time, and Joe informed her that she had bruises on both cheeks of her bottom.
Towards the end of January the banns were read out for the first time in St. John’s, Kates Hill and St. Michael’s, Tividale, proclaiming the forthcoming marriage of Lizzie Bishop to Ben Kite. Lizzie remained calm throughout, allowing everyone else around her the privilege of panicking. She was more concerned with her relationship with Ben than with the material trimmings of the marriage ceremony; not that she needed to be anxious; Ben loved her deeply, and that mattered more than anything else.
For Ben, the prospect of marriage was the culmination of a dream rooted in the moment he first set eyes on Lizzie, and it couldn’t come quick enough. He’d worked diligently to get the well-paid job he felt he deserved. Never would it have crossed his mind to take on the responsibility of marriage without the capability to support not just a wife, but a family as well.
While he waited he concerned himself with the General Election. Its outcome was not greatly to his satisfaction; a dead heat between Tories and Liberals. Herbert Asquith, whom he did not greatly admire because he was too compliant with the demands of trade unions, held on to government with the support of Labour, whom he also deeply distrusted.
Eventually, however, the big day arrived and, at twelve noon, after the Service of Holy Communion, Lizzie Bishop was married to Ben Kite. The Reverend Mr John Mainwaring, reeking of Communion wine, performed the ceremony. It all took place quietly and unpretentiously in the presence of their immediate families. Eve couldn’t help shedding a few tears, while Charlotte Kite, Ben’s mother (dressed up like a shilling dinner, May said) smiled proudly. Ben thought Lizzie looked incomparable in her wedding dress with short, ruched sleeves. Her rich, brown hair, elegantly swept up beneath her head-dress, shone.
Lizzie, for once, was the more composed of the two. She smiled happily as she recited her responses, while Ben was more nervous and stumbled once or twice over his words. After the photographs and the showering of the happy couple with rice – confetti was banned outside the church because of the litter it made – the wedding party walked conspicuously back to 48 Cromwell Street. The bride and groom cheerfully accepted the congratulations of everyone they met on the way. Fortunately, the weather was mild for early March, and occasionally the clouds parted sufficiently to allow patches of yellow sunshine to add fleeting colour to the grey landscape.
Lack of accommodation at home had limited the number of guests, but there were twenty-two in all, including five assorted children. The unfailing ability of May and Joe to amuse everybody with their self-deprecating humour got the party off to a good start.
Iky Bottlebrush’s wife had done the catering. Ben had provided a firkin of strong ale, some bottles of spirits, with lemonade and American ice cream soda for the children. May and Joe, and Beccy and Albert Crump had lent extra chairs.
At about two o’clock, Mrs Bottlebrush served the roast beef. The adults were all packed tightly around the two tables – one in the back room, the other in the front, whereas the children, nieces and nephews sat in tiers up the staircase, their dinners on their laps, the youngest at the bottom, the oldest nearer the top.
After the meal, Jimmy Powell had a few words to say. He told how Ben, whom he used to go to school with, once had a trial with Aston Villa Football Club after their scouts watched him play for the works’ team. But he refused an offer to join them because he felt he might get a similar offer from West Bromwich Albion, his favourite club. Of course, no such approaches came, but Jimmy assured them that Ben did not regret it one little bit, since he might never have met Lizzie.
Later, while Joe was playing his father’s old piano, and everyone was singing and generally having a good time, Eve approached Ben just as he reached the back door, having been up the yard.
‘Ben,’ she began, ‘I don’t know how much all this has cost, but I expect it’s a tidy penny. Well, I’ve got some money saved up, just for this very day, and I want you to have it.’ She tried to press a small bag of sovereigns into his hand.
‘No, Mother,’ he answered firmly, shaking his head.
It was no more than Eve expected. ‘Please, my son. It’d make me ever so happy if you was to take it. I reckon you’ll be as good a son-in-law as any mother could wish for, and if her father had been alive he’d have paid for everything. Well, I see it as my duty now. Here, take the money.’
Ben held Eve’s left hand, and closed it around the bag, keeping his own hand over hers. He leaned forward to speak into her ear.
‘Mother, it’s kind of you, but I won’t hear of it. You’re too soft with your money. I’ve been saving up myself for this. Anyway, I asked Lizzie to marry me, so it’s up to me to pay. Spend the money on yourself.’
‘What do I need with money at my time of life? You’m still young. It’ll do you more good than me.’
‘Buy yourself a new frock, a new coat, a new fancy hat, a new pair of shoes. Treat yourself, Mother. You deserve it.’ He nodded, affirming his resolve, and Eve shook her head admitting defeat.
She suspected he might not accept the money, but she wanted to make the offer anyway. ‘Ah, well,’ she sighed, ‘I could do with some new bloomers … and some new stays. These I’ve got on am a-crippling me. I’ve had ’em donkey’s years.’
*
Marriage heralded a number of changes. Apart from the obvious ones, it was incumbent on Lizzie to look after Ben in the way any wife would look after her husband. Right up to the wedding day Eve had taken care of Lizzie and worried about her as if all along she was a vulnerable child; and it would have been so easy to draw Ben under the same maternal mantle. But Lizzie knew her mother and foresaw the potential pitfalls, so she and Ben devised a new set of house rules. The first was that Ben would pay the rent, even though Eve’s name remained in the rent book. The second was to pay Eve’s keep.
Eve recognised it all as the passing of an epoch; of old age inexorably creeping on. But she also saw this release from the responsibilities of parenthood as a blessing. The arduous burden of juggling housekeeping money, meagre since Joe married, of robbing one tin to pay another, was at once eliminated. She had always been thrifty, her prudence proportionate to the funds available, but since Isaac’s death they’d had damnably little, and every penny had to be allocated thoughtfully to avoid debt. But with wisdom and abstemiousness she managed, without having to pawn the best tablecloth every Monday morning, or Lizzie’s best shoes, and without having to approach either the vicar or the doctor for poor relief vouchers. Now Ben, bless him, insisted he meet all household bills.
Because Lizzie’s own domestic obligations suddenly increased, she found that getting back from work after six o’clock every evening didn’t allow her to perform some of the more mundane, housewifely duties. Conscientious about doing as much as she could herself, it bothered her. Eve didn’t mind cooking an evening meal for them and even laundered their dirty linen on a Monday. It kept her occupied, even though, increasingly, she did not feel up to doing much. But Lizzie had already made up her mind that some things were not Eve’s responsibility – such things as making or changing their bed, or emptying the chamber pot that lurked under it. Such things she must undertake to do herself.
Lizzie decided, therefore, that it would behove her to change to part-time work, or even give it up altogether, like most girls when they married. But since the arrival of a family would preclude her working soon enough, she decided to continue a while and see something of the outside world
.
It was on the first Monday evening of May that a neighbour from Grove Street called to see Lizzie. Maggie Growcott was a married girl, a year older, whom Lizzie had spoken to a couple of weeks earlier about her desire to find a part-time job. Maggie was one of Annie Hudson’s daughters and, although she’d now shed that family name, the girl was still known as Maggie Soap.
‘I just thought yo’ might be interested in a little job at the bottlin’ stores down Caroline Street,’ Maggie said, stepping inside at Lizzie’s invitation. Ben came in from the brewhouse at the same time, stripped to the waist, towelling himself dry after his thorough wash down. ‘Ooh, I’m sorry. Shall I come back after?’
Ben laughed. ‘Come in, Maggie, and take no notice. I’m off upstairs now to put a clean shirt on.’ He tossed his towel to Lizzie and disappeared behind the stairs door.
‘How’s married life suit you, Lizzie?’ Maggie asked, blushing at seeing Ben half naked.
‘It suits me well …’ She draped the towel over the back of a chair to dry, and rolled her eyes in mock frustration, ‘… so far.’ Lizzie swung the kettle over the fire to boil, already half full of water, and spooned tea into the enamelled teapot. ‘So what’s this job, Maggie?’
‘Stickin’ labels on pop bottles. It’s on’y mornin’s – eight till one. I thought it might suit you after what you said.’
Lizzie rubbed the palms of her hands on her apron and sat down on her mother’s chair. ‘Sounds interesting. What’s the money like?’
‘Threepence an hour. That’s what Edie Rollason was on. ’Er’s finishin’ this wik. ’Er’s due to have a babby.’
‘Threepence an hour? Why that’d bring in over six shillings a week, Maggie. I only get seven and six now and I have to work Saturdays as well. Who would I have to see?’
‘Ask for Cephas Vanes. I already told ’im as I knew somebody who might be interested. When can yer goo?’
‘Wednesday afternoon, about half past two. Threepence an hour, eh?’
*
That Wednesday in May 1910, Ben left work early. There was an allotment in Hill Street to rent and he’d gone to the council offices to see if they would let him have it. He knew nothing about horticulture but, all day, he’d been turning over in his mind what vegetables he could grow; and if he grew enough he could sell them and earn another copper or two. It might be a bit late in the season now to start growing, but there must be some varieties that could be sown for harvesting in the late summer or autumn. In any case, if the allotment had been overlooked it would need to be cleared first, so it was already too late for summer produce.
Since nobody else had their name down for an allotment in Hill Street, Ben was successful. On his way home, reflecting on his good fortune, he made a detour. For some time he had pondered the benefits a bicycle would give, so he took advantage of the occasion to visit the bicycle shop in King Street. A black, second-hand Elswick machine standing on the pavement outside caught his eye. After inspecting it thoroughly he left a shilling deposit on it, promising to return for it and pay the balance on Friday. As he headed for home the newspaper placards bore information that saddened him, so he bought an evening newspaper.
‘You look bothered,’ Lizzie commented when he arrived. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just read this … The King’s very poorly. Pneumonia. It don’t look very promising.’ He sat down and shoved the newspaper across the table towards her.
Lizzie read it and shook her head. ‘Poor soul. It doesn’t sound very promising, does it? … I’ve got some good news, though …’ Her frown changed to a smile. ‘I start at the bottling stores a week on Monday.’
‘You got on all right, then?’
‘Oh, it’ll be much better, Ben. No more working Saturdays. Every afternoon off. We shall be able to go out together of a Saturday.’
‘When I ain’t working on the allotment, that is. Oh, and I’ve bought a bike to go to work on. That’ll give me an extra ten minutes in bed with you of a morning.’
*
Two days afterwards Lizzie gave notice that she wished to terminate her employment at Theedham’s. Later, she and May set off home and May talked about how it was time she got out of the shop too, because she’d worked there since leaving school, and was convinced they thought she was a fixture.
‘But they’re better than some shops, to work for I mean, May. At least we get an afternoon off in the week. Some shop girls don’t get that.’
May shrugged indifferently. ‘Maybe. But I still reckon I’ve had enough.’
It started to rain again and May put up her brolly, cursing the rotten weather. It had been so bad lately that many were blaming Halley’s Comet, which was known to be approaching. They headed towards the Market Place, huddling close under the umbrella, Lizzie holding May’s arm.
‘If I was having a child you wouldn’t see my behind for dust getting away from this place,’ May assured her. ‘Are you planning any babbies yet, Lizzie?’
‘Not particularly. But if any come along we shan’t mind.’
‘Shan’t mind? Take a tip from me, Lizzie, and never try an prevent ’em. Just imagine if you and Ben was to turn out like Joe and me, and don’t have none. You’d wish then as you hadn’t bothered with all this birth control saftness you keep hearing about. I’d give my eyeteeth for a child, God knows I would.’
‘Oh, I know you would, May. But Ben and me are in no rush. We want to delay it if we can, so I daresay you’ll get pregnant well before me.’
‘Oh, I can get pregnant, Lizzie. I’ve been pregnant, I’m certain. More than once. I can’t carry ’em though. I seem to lose ’em after about three months.’
‘Oh, May! I’m that sorry. You never said.’
‘Well, I’d never dream of saying anything till I’m sure. I’m superstitious, Lizzie, and I don’t want to say nothing for fear of tempting Providence.’
*
King Edward VII sadly passed away, and was duly buried on May 21st 1910 in the family vault at St George’s Chapel Windsor. All the pomp, splendour, sadness and homage befitting the monarch of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, attended him. But beyond all the pageantry, all the refinement and superiority which Britain manifested to the rest of a subordinate world; beyond the noble quests for the South Pole; beyond well-intentioned prison reforms; beyond the ideology of reforms to the House of Lords; beyond the high drama of ritual ceremony, there were dark rumblings of discontent throughout the land at every level. Miners in Northumberland and Durham had been striking for an eight hour day and riots had broken out. Lloyd George claimed in a speech that the question of women’s suffrage must be shelved since reform of the Lords must take priority. Wild cat strikes by dockers prompted employers to lock out a hundred thousand men in an effort to eliminate the problem conclusively and, immediately, ten thousand Welsh miners came out in sympathy. Another general election resulted in yet another dead heat and Herbert Asquith once more held on to power.
But Britain was not the only place where unrest and upheaval was growing. The whole world seemed to be on the brink of chaos. In Spain there was rioting as miners in Bilbao went on strike. Berlin witnessed an anti-government demonstration by a quarter of a million socialists after suffrage supporters in an earlier demonstration were either shot or cut down. Rioters in China burned property owned by foreigners. Cholera raged through Russia, claiming sixty thousand lives, and then broke out in Naples resulting in the fleeing of a hundred thousand frightened people. Japan formally annexed Korea and prepared for an uprising. A revolution ousted the Portuguese monarchy and, significantly, the Reichstag voted to increase the strength of the German army by half a million men.
Yet, despite all this ferment, ordinary people still lived and breathed, ate, slept and went about their daily lives as normal, hoping that none of this mania would touch them or their families. There was still work to be done, there were wages to be earned; life had to go on. The coronation of King George V on June 23rd 1911 brought some
respite for the population of Britain, since it was declared a public holiday. To most the pomp and glory of that monumental event was overtly reassuring; nothing could undermine a nation whose society was rooted in such an unshakeable system of hierarchy, where everybody unquestioningly knew their place.
Dudley was a riot of celebrations that day, teeming with folk. The weather was warm, though mostly overcast but, at least, it remained dry – a blessing, since many streets were due to hold their own outdoor parties in the afternoon and evening. During the morning Lizzie and Ben Kite walked to the town to see the flags and bunting flapping like strings of live, tethered gulls across High Street. They watched the side shows around the crowded Market Place; Find the Lady; jugglers, a barber-shop quartet harmonising cleverly to appreciative applause; a street entertainer riding on a huge ball that he controlled with his feet; folk joining hands and dancing to the mechanical music of a hurdy-gurdy, breaking into spontaneous laughter, before the player passed round the monkey, which was holding a little tin cup to collect pennies. The couple threw more coins to a man playing a concertina and to two men dancing with bells on their feet. Arm in arm they sauntered along through the crowds, enjoying the friendly, festive atmosphere.
At about half past twelve Ben decided to take Lizzie for a drink in one of the pubs. He really fancied a pint, and it would be an experience for her, he said. It was. Her appearance, in her new cream blouse with soft, flowing sleeves and waterfall style skirt, tight at the hips, raised a few eyebrows and more than a few admiring glances in The Woolpack. Ben called for a pint of bitter for himself and a half for Lizzie. But she couldn’t wait to get out. It was smoky, and the stench of stale beer and of sawdust on the floors held little appeal. Men grunted and spat into spittoons, making her feel sick, and their colourful language was hardly tempered for her benefit. But Ben smiled and passed the time of day with the regulars, who were affable enough despite their roughness. Soon after, they returned home for a dinner of cold chitterlings with salt and vinegar and bread and butter, before their own street party began at four o’ clock.
