The Dressmaker's Daughter

by Nancy Carson

  And his wonderful, good looks … They were doubtless gone forever, marred, spoilt, destroyed by those awful blisters and burns.

  *

  It surprised Lizzie how quickly they got used to their new way of life. Ben got no better, but neither did he get any worse. She was thankful for that, but she had to do every mortal thing for him, though she did it willingly enough, spurred on by the guilty conscience that still haunted her over that Christmas night of love with Stanley Dando. Recalling over and over in her mind that brief evening, and the unexpected pleasure and romance it brought, heightened the feelings of guilt. She could not forget it. Before long she began to realise that she didn’t want to forget it. And then she would remember the letter she subsequently received some six weeks later, saying that he couldn’t get her off his mind either. This, now, was her penance. It was no less than she deserved.

  Lack of money became the biggest material problem. Ben was due some weekly war pension, but it didn’t go far. Soon, she was forced to seek extra hours in her part time job, and she realised how fortunate she was to be awarded them. With the war over, hundreds of thousands of men were returning to civilian life to find there were no jobs at all. At no time did she entertain the idea of going to ask either Donald Clark or the Reverend Mainwaring to sanction parish relief; her pride decreed she should continue to work. While she did, May would call round to make sure Ben was all right, and to make him a cup of tea. It hurt Lizzie’s pride enormously to ask, since she still harboured resentment over her mother’s Coalport China tea service, but May readily agreed to look after Alice and Maxine daily while she went out to work. The benefit for May, Lizzie realised, was that the children occupied her own daughter, Emmie, who was becoming ever more demanding as she grew older.

  The extra money Lizzie brought in helped the Kites, but still it was not enough. She collected every scrap of left-over food for pig swill; stale bread, uneaten vegetables, and boiled potato peelings. Jack ’Ardmate was eager to pay a penny a bucket for it to feed his pigs. On Saturday mornings she took the children to the Oakham colliery, or the disused Bunns Lane colliery, to glean pieces of coal from the pit banks. If they could fill a couple of buckets they would return grubby, but well pleased.

  Lizzie somehow always managed to scrape up enough money to pay the rent. Since the war it had increased to five shillings a week. New clothes were out of the question, and the children had to walk the streets without shoes as they wore them down to little more than strips of leather. They were growing fast, and whilst kitting out the two younger girls was easier because of hand-me-downs, it was different with Herbert: he could no longer be dressed in a frock like a girl, which was normal till school age; he was at school now and had to wear proper boys’ things. Lizzie was grateful when, at a routine inspection, the headmistress of his school deemed him needy and recommended him for a pair of boots from ‘The Daily Mail Fund’. There was a stigma attached to having them, but this time she swallowed her pride.

  Joe gave Lizzie a half sovereign when he could afford it, and many other families were kind. Realising their plight, those who could were happy to help by donating the outgrown clothes and shoes of their own children. It was a paradox in Lizzie’s eyes that the poorer a family was the more clothes they wore, camouflaging the holes in the outer jersey with one underneath.

  There was, however, one person to whom Lizzie could have turned, for anything, money included, though her pride would never allow it. That person was Jesse Clancey. During the whole time Ben was away he’d kept a discreet watch over her, like a guardian angel. If ever she’d been in any sort of trouble he would have been there to help her. She was never aware of it, even though he delivered her milk every day. Jesse kept his custodial distance, for fear of her reputation becoming tarnished. With so many men away from home, women were potential prey to the Romeos left behind wishing to exploit them.

  Shortly after Ben’s return home, however, when he knew she would be safe from such tittle-tattle, he decided to let his concern be known. It was eight o’ clock in the morning and she was holding out her quart enamelled jug while Jesse ladled milk into it from a churn. Ben was still in bed.

  ‘How’s Ben, Lizzie?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘Oh, about the same, Jesse, thanks. But he gets so frustrated that he can’t do anything. It’s driving him mad … and driving me mad as well.’

  ‘Lizzie, if there’s anything I can do to help – no matter what it is – you’ve only got to ask. I want you to know that. Anything at all. If you’re short of money, or want any errands running, just let me know.’

  ‘Oh, Jesse, that’s kind of you. Really kind. But I can cope.’

  He shrugged, and replaced his ladle, the hook at the end of the handle secure over the lip of the churn. ‘As long as you can, all well and good. But just remember as there is somebody you can lean on if you need to.’ He put the lid back on his churn.

  ‘I shan’t forget, Jesse. Thank you. I shan’t forget.’

  He could see she meant it. ‘How would Ben take to me coming round occasionally to spend an hour with him – of a night time, say? I’d love to talk to him about his war experiences, not having had any myself. D’you think he’d mind?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’d love that, Jesse. He’d really love that. Come round any time. Come round tonight if you want.’ Lizzie saw the warmth in his eyes.

  ‘Right, I will. About eight o’ clock. But I shan’t make a nuisance of myself. I’ll only come when I think it’s right … Not every night … I wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome.’

  She smiled. The years had taken nothing away from Jesse. He must be close to forty now, but he was no less handsome. His filling out a bit had made him even more attractive, she thought; and his air of confidence and maturity now seemed to enhance his appeal. There must have been some local, young war widows who’d benefited from his still being around.

  ‘Whenever you want, Jesse,’ she assured him. ‘We’d both enjoy your company.’

  Chapter 15

  Jesse Clancey became a regular visitor. He would call, on average, once a week, at about eight o’ clock in an evening, and stay till ten. Lizzie would fetch a couple of jugs of beer, which he was always keen to pay for, and he and Ben would chat, exchange views, and discuss Ben’s escapades in the war. Lizzie would sit and listen, too, since his stories were usually all new to her; mostly amusing tales; leaving out the horror and the sadness, and the wretchedness of being holed up in filthy, muddy trenches.

  As Jesse listened, he watched Lizzie, in her late twenties now, mother to four handsome but increasingly threadbare children; wife to a shattered hero, disfigured through his desire to serve his country. He dearly wished he could do more for Lizzie. She was worthy of so much more. She was still as appealing as the day she got married, retaining her youthfulness. Her figure was like that of a young girl, not in the least coarsened by bearing four children. Her face was as beautiful and round as ever, registering a few thin lines around the eyes now, and at the corners of her mouth, but not at all unbecoming, especially when she smiled. Her complexion was smooth as a lily, too, and free of blemishes.

  Jesse saw in Lizzie a determined woman who had withstood heartbreak, boredom, tragedy, fear and grim poverty. He saw a caring mother, coping with the everyday dramas of her children’s grazed knees and bleeding cuts; of lost buttons; of frayed and snapped boot laces. He saw a young wife tending dutifully to her sick husband’s every need, yet retaining a dreamy, girlish demeanour, which to anyone else would suggest vulnerability. He knew that, despite this illusion, she made sure the rent was paid on time, that her family was fed and their clothes mended. She gave all her heart to her children and, in return, received the overt love of not only them, but of everyone else who knew her.

  As the months passed he saw her sink deeper into depression. He began to understand that her apparent shyness was merely a cloak of protection, worn to hide her uncertainty from the prying eyes of less sensitive folk; folk who might b
ruise her gentle heart if she exposed it. He began to understand that she was sentimental, and needed the resolute love of someone, as much as she needed sleep, food, and breath in her body. She needed the resolute love of her husband, it was clear; but Jesse began to understand that Ben was not well enough to provide it.

  Jesse found himself drawn to Lizzie all over again as he called at the Kites’. He admitted to himself that it was Lizzie he really came to see. Now, though, the attraction was double-edged. In the early days it was physical. Now it was more than that: it was also protective. But the more he got to know her, the more he admired her courage.

  Lizzie, too, was glad of Jesse’s visits. When husband and wife are limited by the finite space they share for the best part of twenty-four hours every day of every week, conversation inevitably becomes less stimulating, and even infrequent. Lizzie was becoming increasingly depressed by circumstances, too. There was no one to blame for the way things were but Ben. Ben was the one who decided in 1914 to go off and fight; not her. He was the one who needlessly gave up a good job to satisfy his own misplaced priorities. He alone created the circumstances that led to his irreversible uselessness. It wasn’t her fault he was an invalid and would be so till the day he died. Of course, she would never dream of spelling it out, but look where his heroics had got them.

  Yet she was the one who suffered most. He could shave himself and clean his teeth, but she had to wash him, help him dress, brush his hair. She had to walk him slowly to the lavatory and wait for him to bring him back. Every week she had to bath him in the tin bath on the hearth, and that whole routine was a fearful task. He could reach nothing for himself, and each day he wanted a hundred things handed to him, or fetched, so she was always running errands.

  There were a thousand other jobs to do besides: rugs to beat; the grate to blacklead; the brass fender to polish; changing the beds; the washing; the ironing; the mending; the dusting; scrubbing the stairs; cleaning windows; peeling vegetables and cooking; getting four children ready every morning; getting them off to bed at night without a battle. The fire forever wanted making up.

  And, of all things, Ben always insisted on wearing a starched collar when Donald Clark or the vicar were due to visit him, yet nobody ever knew where his studs or cuff-links were. So the arrival of another person, less familiar, but well liked, in the shape of Jesse Clancey, was a welcome relief.

  When it was time for Jesse to return home to his widowed mother, Lizzie would walk to the bottom of the entry with him and they generally stopped and talked. She sometimes thought he wanted to take her in his arms; or was it just fanciful thinking? There were times when she ardently wished he would. Not necessarily to be loved sexually. She’d done without sexual love for so long now that she was acclimatised to it; all that was behind her; but just to be held close would be nice. Yet it did not happen.

  The more Lizzie saw of Jesse, the closer she wanted to get to him. Oh, she’d always fancied him, but time and events had precluded any romantic liaison. Now she was irrevocably drawn to him again. At first she denied she was experiencing such feelings, but as time went by those feelings were undeniable. The problem was, she wasn’t free to tell him, and she wouldn’t dream of doing so. She was a married woman, with clear responsibilities, and a husband and children who depended on her totally. It was all so frustrating.

  When she asked herself whether she still loved Ben, she was bemused by her own answer. She loved him, certainly, in the sense that he was the father of her children, and she wished him no ill. She loved him, too, simply because she’d always loved him. But she had to admit she was no longer in love. His good looks were gone. His face and body were covered in scars and weeping sores that would not heal. He was bent, frail, pallid, while Jesse was none of these things. Jesse was all the more attractive by comparison.

  She did not like herself when she realised this undeniable truth. She could never have admitted it before, even to herself; but yes, when she looked at Ben she even felt some revulsion now. She was certain, though, that if he had returned from the war the same fit man that went away, her love would have been eternal. Yet the man who did return had the same soul as the man that departed – albeit he was far more worldly; he was the same caring, intelligent, opinionated man. Only his appearance had changed. His was a body racked with pain, scarred, weak, ultimately lacking the sweet, sensual vitality she’d always adored. It was that same sensual vitality that Lizzie, in her absolute prime, was sorely missing.

  Lizzie was still of an age when physical considerations were uppermost. She was fickle, she told herself, greatly disappointed at the realisation of her own shortcomings. She was as fickle as a child craving chocolate, taking it from whoever’s promised to be sweetest.

  She couldn’t help pondering anew that clandestine session with Stanley Dando. To justify her seduction that fateful night she’d tried to make believe she was with Ben. But it had not been Ben, and she had known it well enough. It had all been a charade, an excuse to try and make it right with her conscience. She scolded herself. The chance to taste Stanley’s lips; the chance to thrill to his earnest seeking of those secret places inside her underwear that only Ben had known, had unexpectedly arisen, and she wasn’t slow to take advantage. Dear God, she was no better than a common whore, except that she’d not charged money. Worse: she’d done it for pleasure; for self gratification; knowingly; wilfully being unfaithful.

  Yet the memory lingered, and she yielded again to the warmth of desire that flowed through her; since it was not an unpleasant memory … But where was Stanley now?

  *

  May Bishop watched her own child, and those of Lizzie and Ben, growing up together. Although she could see a marked difference in the development of Lizzie’s children, compared with her own daughter, it was a difference that the children either ignored, or in their innocence hadn’t noticed. Emmie was nearly five by this time, and a real handful, but Henzey in particular seemed to revel in a self-imposed responsibility for making sure her younger cousin was well looked after, and not slighted or put upon by any of the others. May noticed this on many occasions, and it made her aware of her own past spitefulness towards Henzey. So she tried to think of some positive, material way she could redeem herself in the eyes of her Maker. It occurred to her that the Coalport tea service she’d lied to Lizzie about a while ago could help. If she could make some arrangement with Lizzie for it go to Henzey it would ease her conscience no end, and show some appreciation of her niece’s care.

  So, with Emmie at her side one sunny July day in 1920, she called round to see her sister-in-law. First she asked Ben how he was and, while Lizzie put the kettle on to boil, she passed the time of day with him. While the tea was steeping in the pot Lizzie suggested they take two chairs outside onto the yard and enjoy the sunshine.

  ‘Lizzie, you know that Coalport tea service that was your mother’s?’ May said when the tea had been poured and they were both seated, with Emmie on her lap.

  ‘The one Mother said you could have?’ Lizzie was facing the sun with her eyes closed to better appreciate its warmth.

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking. Seeing as how I’m too frit to use it for fear of bostin’ it to smithereens, I’d like our Henzey to have it – for when she grows up and gets married, I mean, not to play with here on the yard. We could keep it for her. You know – put it away till she gets married. What d’you think, Lizzie?’

  Lizzie took a swipe at a hovering wasp that was threatening to mar her peace, and spilled some tea into her saucer in consequence. ‘Oh, damn! … Yes, I think it’s a good idea, May.’ She casually drained the unanticipated contents of the saucer back into her cup. ‘Shall I keep it for her? It’d be safe in its box on the top shelf of the cupboard.’ Lizzie knew that having got thus far May could hardly refuse to hand it back.

  ‘If you like. It’d be a load off me mind.’ She pulled a piece of rag out of her apron pocket and wiped her child’s dribbling mouth. ‘I’ll fetch it when I’ve drunk me tea
.’

  While she waited for May to return with the tea service, Lizzie watched Emmie scraping moss from between the blue bricks paving the yard with a broken clothes peg. She smiled to herself. She understood the reason for May’s change of heart perfectly well: her guilty conscience had got the better of her; and Lizzie welcomed it.

  After a minute Lizzie heard footsteps in the entry but, expecting May’s return, kept her eyes shut as she sat with her face tilted towards the sun – till she heard a man’s voice.

  ‘Bugger me, our Lizzie. Got nothin’ to do but sun theeself?’

  She turned to look, shielding her eyes. ‘Uncle Tom! What brings you here?’

  ‘Bad news, our Lizzie.’

  ‘Oh, no. Not Stanley?’ Her heart seemed to stop beating.

  ‘No, not Stanley, thank the Lord. Our Sylvia’s husband. He passed away sudden last night at ten to eleven. I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Sylvia’s husband? … Oh, I am sorry, Uncle Tom. What on earth was the matter with him?’

  ‘Heart failure, the doctor said. There was nothing wrong with him that we knew of. He hadn’t been bad nor nothin’. He stood up to go to bed, and just collapsed. We sent for the doctor right away, but the poor chap was dead by the time he come.’

  ‘And how’s Sylvia taking it? Bad, I expect.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s sunk in yet, our Lizzie …’

  ‘I never met him, Uncle Tom. Nor have I seen their son.’

  ‘Kenneth.’

  ‘Yes. Kenneth … Well, you know I haven’t seen Sylvia for a good many years.’

  Tom ran his finger round the inside of his collar. He was still panting after his strenuous walk up to Cromwell Street. Working all his adult life in a brass foundry had taken its toll on his chest.