The Dressmaker's Daughter

by Nancy Carson

  They’d left that room at about half past five, in the full light of day, parting with a brief kiss at the main entrance, promising to meet there at the same time next Saturday. He would not call to see Ben again on this leave, so it was unlikely she would see him before then.

  Lizzie drew the curtain at last, and slid in to bed beside Ben, as gently as a mouse so as not to wake him. For a few minutes she lay, wide awake, staring at the half dark ceiling, but seeing only what was in her mind. ‘Will you write to me this time?’ ‘If you want me to.’ ‘I’d like you to.’ Ben snuffled, gasped, and snored once or twice. ‘But right now I’m lying here with you, not him.’ Her knee itched and she scratched it. ‘But when you go back home, you’ll be with him. And tonight, you’ll likely be naked making love with him.’

  Fat chance.

  Ben moved, as if aware she’d been away. He sought her hand, and found it while he slept.

  *

  While Lizzie waited for next Saturday she felt brighter and happier, more content than she had for years. She smiled more as she set about her daily chores, knowing that at the end of the week there was another gorgeous afternoon with Stanley to look forward to. Her attitude to Ben and the children was more tolerant; she showed a greater willingness to tend to his needs. In part it was guilt, but mostly it sprang from the joy of rediscovering the pleasure and contentment that sexual intimacy could provide, magically soothing away tensions and pressures, lifting her.

  And so the next Saturday came, and it was much the same as the last one, except that a whole week’s anticipation moved them both to greater appreciation and enjoyment. This affair promised already to be highly physical. It was such a pity they could only meet on odd days, when Stanley was home on leave. Next time would not be so long to wait, though – only six months. And six months, although long enough, was not like another five years.

  Ben never saw the letters that arrived for Lizzie. She read them, then burned them, envelopes and all, before he got up. Or she intercepted the postman with the second post. They were never wildly passionate letters, nor indecently frequent, and this pleased her. Stanley put no pressure on her with head-turning words of love, as she thought he might, and it rendered her deceit all the easier to contain.

  *

  The months passed and, in October, the miners went out on strike again, shutting every pit in the country. Ben Kite was predictably outraged. He complained to Jesse Clancey about it during one of his visits.

  ‘I have to laugh at that bloody Smillie, the president of the Miners’ Federation,’ he scoffed, reaching for his newspaper. ‘It says here, “Robert Smillie said in Lanarkshire last Sunday … that this fight for an extra two shillings per man per shift … was not a fight against the community or the government … but a fight against the mine owners backed by the government.” Jesse, I’ve never heard such a load of bloody clap-trap in all my life.’ He put the newspaper down, his breath coming in rasps. ‘If it ain’t a fight against the community, then why is it the damn community has to bloody suffer, eh? … If their fight’s with the pit owners then why don’t they grab hold of the pit owners and shake seven bells of shit out of ’em? … Rather than put their so-called brothers in lumber … with the winter coming on and all … The railwaymen and the dockers’ll be out next. They generally all like to have a go together … just to rub it in.’

  In November, Maxine went down with chicken pox and, in December, it was Alice’s turn. Lizzie read with interest that martial law had been finally declared in Ireland in an attempt to curb the escalating violence and, in January, British tanks rolled into Dublin. She thought about Stanley. By February the number of unemployed had topped a million, and during the third week of March Stanley came home on leave again.

  Chapter 17

  Soon after his father died, Jesse Clancey realised that trying to cover two milk rounds by himself was virtually impossible. It was tiring, not just for himself, but for his poor horse, Ramsbottom, as well. It left him no time to relax and do the other things he wanted to do. So he hired Harry Skilbeck, a long time friend, whom he could trust. Jesse gave the Buffery and Dixons Green round to Harry, because it eliminated the likelihood of him ever meeting Sylvia Dando and, just as relevantly, her mother. When Jesse heard of the death of Sylvia’s husband, he considered how judicious this decision had been.

  Sylvia’s marriage had been entirely satisfactory. Her husband, James, had provided the means for a standard of living vastly better than the one she’d been used to, since residing with her mother and father had presented an opportunity to save a useful amount of money. Sylvia took James’ death philosophically, with great sadness, yet barely shedding a tear. She would miss him, of course, having been his wife for more than seven years, as would her six-year old son, Kenneth. James had set up a partnership as an architect, and it had flourished. Because he was of a methodical nature he’d gone about it properly, using a solicitor to draw up a legal deed of partnership. Consequently, Sylvia found herself reasonably well off once compensated with the insurance money that represented James’s share of the business.

  It had always been their intention to move into their own house; and the house of their dreams, occupying a plot of land he’d purchased in Oakham Road, was nearing completion when James died. This project was being financed by a mortgage, and one of the conditions of it, naturally enough, was that James’s life be insured to the value of the finished house. So, besides the partnership share, Sylvia also became the owner of an unfinished detached villa residence in one of the most desirable, almost rural, areas of the town. The house remained uncompleted for more than a year until the insurance claim was settled, but that done, it was finished over the ensuing months, and Sylvia and her son eventually moved in.

  Having just delivered milk to one of his regular customers in Oakham Road one bright March morning in 1922, Jesse stepped onto his milk float and flicked the reins to move off when he heard a familiar voice calling him. He looked up and was surprised to see, of all people, Sylvia, waving enthusiastically. Being the gentleman he was, he acknowledged her at once and drew the float to a halt outside the new house. She walked down the front path to meet him. He’d watched this impressive house being built, noticed it standing unfinished for ages, not knowing who was to be its inhabitant, and not unduly concerned, except that it was another prospective customer. Little did he expect that customer would be Sylvia.

  ‘Sylvia! Damn my hide! Are you living here?’

  She said she was, and explained.

  ‘Yes, I was sorry to hear about your husband passing away. It must’ve come as a terrible shock. But it’s been what? Nigh on two years now?’

  ‘James died in the July.’

  ‘And have you settled in now?’

  ‘Well I’ve furnished downstairs, and our two bedrooms, and I’ve got curtains up in those rooms, but there’s still such a lot to do. The trouble is, it needs a man’s strength, and my father’s not strong enough these days. And Stanley’s not expected home till the end of the year.’

  ‘What needs to be done, Sylvia?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely stacks of things. I need coat hooks putting up, I want a dado rail put up in the sitting room, a towel rail in the bathroom, wallpaper everywhere. The garden needs establishing. You know, lawns, flower beds, trees planted. I only wish I could do it all myself.’

  Jesse looked at her with studied eyes. She must be thirty-six now, but the years had been kind. She still looked attractive and well dressed in expensive if matronly clothes. Her face was thinner, if anything, and like her mother she carried no superfluous weight. She possessed an understated elegance that was appealing; and she tried diligently to be refined.

  ‘Your best bet is to get recognised tradesmen, Sylvia. All right, they might cost you a copper or two, but if you can afford it, it’d be worth it. Have the jobs done proper.’ He thought he detected a flicker of disappointment in her eyes that he had not offered his own services.

  ‘I suppose you’re
right. Do you know of anybody?’

  ‘I daresay I do. Let me have a think about it, eh? I’m sure I could come up with somebody … Anyway, you stopped me. D’you want me to deliver your milk?’

  ‘Oh, please, Jesse. And can I have a jug now?’

  ‘’Course you can.’

  Sylvia went inside and returned with a white ceramic jug. She held it up while he filled it from his ladle, giving her a generous measure.

  ‘I’d ask you in for a cup of tea …’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Sylvia, but I’m running a bit late, to tell you the truth. Some other time, eh?’ He stepped onto his cart and flicked the reins again, touching his cap as he moved off. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Over the ensuing months Jesse Clancey got used to seeing Sylvia, delivering milk to her every day except Sundays. His initial unease gradually dissipated and he became more relaxed in her company. One fine September morning when he’d completely dropped his guard, Sylvia succeeded in coaxing him into her comfortable lair. Jesse had been early to the station with Harry Skilbeck to collect his churns of milk, and thus had a flying start to his day. Normally, he took the churns back to the dairy house and Harry picked up his allocation from there, but this new way saved a fair bit of time. Jesse wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  ‘You’re early today, Jesse,’ Sylvia observed, as he decanted milk ritually into her jug. ‘Does that mean you’ve got time for a cup of tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’

  Jesse dipped a hand inside his cow gown and into his waistcoat pocket. He withdrew his fob watch and scrutinised it. Yes, he could afford ten minutes. It could do no harm. Besides, he was curious to see inside Sylvia’s new house. It would be a talking point with Lizzie Kite.

  He followed her inside and was invited to sit down on one of Sylvia’s new sumptuously upholstered armchairs. So, dusting off the seat of his cow gown, he eased himself in. While he waited he looked around, admiring the fine velvet curtains, the Pre-Raphaelite pictures of Arcadian nymphs with long flowing hair, hanging on the walls over the lush, flock wallpaper. There was an expensive looking marble fireplace standing proud of the chimney breast, a thick carpet under his feet and immaculately trimmed wall to wall linoleum on which it lay. Yes, Sylvia had done very well for herself.

  That evening Jesse called round to the Kites’ house.

  ‘Sylvia asked me in for a cup of tea this morning,’ he said, after Ben had given his breathless opinion on the day’s political and sports news. ‘She’s got it beautiful, Lizzie. Like a palace, it is.’

  ‘She can afford it. Her husband left her a tidy penny, by all accounts.’

  ‘Ivor Whistle’s done a bostin’ job paperhanging. There’s velvet curtains up at the windows, plush carpets. Oh, and she’s even got a bathroom upstairs with a water closet.’

  ‘Huh! There’ll be no newspaper hanging in little squares on a nail for her,’ Ben commented.

  ‘Damned right, Ben. It’ll be best lavatory paper for Sylvia, and no two ways … What are you laughing at, Ben?’

  ‘Sounds to me as though she’s aiming for a new husband, Jesse. You could be in the firing line. You want to keep your head down.’

  Jesse smiled and nodded, glancing at Lizzie. ‘And if I didn’t already know the wench, she might be in with a chance. But not me and Sylvia, Ben. It never worked out the first time. As sure as hell it wouldn’t work out a second.’

  ‘But you don’t know, Jesse,’ Lizzie urged, deliberately goading him, trying to glean whether he really meant it. ‘People change, you know. Everybody changes. Sylvia might be a completely different woman to the one you knew all those years ago. I bet she’d make a perfect wife, especially as she’s been married before. I haven’t seen her for years, but I imagine she’s still a fine looking girl. She was always the sort to look after herself.’

  ‘Oh, she’s smart still, Lizzie, and no mistake. Proper ladylike. But it’d be, “Watch where you’re putting your jacket, Jesse,”’ he mimicked, making the others smile. ‘“Get your shoes off afore you come in the house … Don’t flatten them cushions”… Why, me life’d be a misery.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s that bad.’ Ben’s laughter was hurting him.

  ‘Oh, she’s worse. Anyway, I don’t think I’m posh enough for her now.’

  ‘But there’d be no harm in taking her out once in a while, Jesse. You could take her to the Opera House of a Saturday night to see one of those shows they have on. You don’t have to marry her … You could still get your feet under the table. A good many would be glad of the opportunity … If you don’t, somebody else will.’

  ‘And they’re welcome as far as I’m concerned,’ Jesse said, looking at Lizzie again – a look which Lizzie caught.

  Yet, as time passed, Jesse continued to respond positively to Sylvia’s persistent offers of liquid refreshment halfway through his rounds, and she told him to walk right in if she didn’t answer the door at once. After all, she might be pegging washing out in the back garden, unable to hear him. He was flattered, and accepted one invitation for Sunday tea early in December. He arrived as it was getting dark, wearing his best three piece Sunday suit and gold fob watch beneath his heavy winter overcoat. The welcome, warm air that embraced his chilled face bore the homely aroma of bread baking. For the first time he saw how pleasantly subtle the lighting was. It was all very appealing. Sylvia relieved him of his best bowler and his coat, before leading him into the sitting room. Her son Kenneth was lying in front of a glorious fire, scribbling on a writing pad. Sylvia introduced them.

  ‘What’s that you’re drawing?’ Jesse enquired, trying to befriend the fair-haired boy.

  ‘Oh, it’s not a drawing,’ he answered politely. The child was well spoken, like his mother. ‘I’m writing a letter to Santa Claus.’

  ‘I see. So what d’you want Santa Claus to bring you, eh?’

  ‘Just some tin soldiers.’

  ‘Tin soldiers, eh? Have you asked your mother to get you a Christmas tree, as well?’

  ‘She says if I’m very good she’ll get one.’

  ‘Well that’s fair. It always pays to be good, you know. Santa Claus always knows how you behave. And if you’ve been extra specially good he might even bring you some sweets.’

  Sylvia broke into the conversation. ‘I’ll go and get tea ready, Jesse. Do you like fruitcake? Funny, but I can’t remember.’

  ‘I used to love your mother’s. I daresay yours’ll be just as good.’

  ‘How’s your mother keeping, Jesse? Does she still play the piano?’

  ‘From time to time, but she’s got arthritis in her hands these days, so she can’t play that well now. Still gives a few lessons though.’

  ‘Well that’s something. And is she still keen on sewing?’

  ‘Not so much now. How are your mother and father, Sylvia?’

  She sat down on the edge of the other armchair. ‘Well, Mother’s fine, thank you, Jesse, but Father’s not so well. He’s a proper old man now. Getting quite frail.’

  ‘I expect you’ll be spending Christmas day with them, eh?’

  ‘Actually, no. I shan’t see them over Christmas at all. Kenneth and I have been invited to spend a few days with James’s parents. They live in Sedgley, so we don’t see them very often. I thought it would be a good opportunity.’

  ‘Give you a break, as well.’

  Sylvia stood up. ‘And it’ll be welcome. I’ll make that tea, Jesse. Kenneth, would you finish your letter at the table, instead of lolling on the floor? Else Mr Clancey won’t be very impressed with you at all.’

  *

  Stanley Dando arrived at Dudley station shortly after two o’ clock on Sunday the 17th. The day was still, with a clammy cold that pierced through to the bones, and a thick grey fog that reduced visibility to about ten yards. Damp, unhealthy English weather, he told himself, lugging his kit bag behind him into The Shoulder of Mutton for a pint of home-brewed bitter to liven up his appetite for his dinner. Thank goodness he woul
dn’t have to suffer it much longer.

  He wouldn’t have to suffer it much longer because the European population of Southern Rhodesia had voted in a referendum to go their own way and not become aligned to the Union of South Africa, as its fifth province. Next September, therefore, the colony was due to become self-governing, annexed to the Crown. It meant they must organise their own defence forces, and Stanley had volunteered for secondment to Salisbury, the colony’s capital, to assist them, along with other officers. He was to commence the long journey as soon as his leave was over.

  His mother made a great fuss of him when he walked in, and his father shook his hand and said how well he looked. Within half an hour he was enjoying roast chicken, a rare delicacy, with creamed potatoes, sprouts, and carrots, which Sarah had been keeping warm in the oven under an upturned plate. That finished, they talked, and he sat in one of the armchairs to read the Sunday paper, then fell asleep. At eight o’ clock he decided to have a wash and patronise The Shoulder of Mutton again. Later, he could visit Lizzie and pay his respects to Ben. But he fell among amusing company in The Shoulder of Mutton, and so postponed his visit. No matter; Lizzie wasn’t going anywhere.

  He spent most of Monday with Sylvia, enjoying her hospitality and relishing the novelty of comparative luxury in her new home. There were one or two odd jobs she asked him to do, which he completed gladly, and offered to do more while he was home on leave. In the afternoon he went to Dudley Market and bought lots of Christmas decorations and a Christmas tree that he decorated that evening with Kenneth.