The Dressmaker's Daughter

by Nancy Carson

  She felt as if she’d been jilted, treated like an old shoe to be discarded; and she was indignant that he had not considered her worthy enough to have mentioned it before, as if she would cling and make it awkward for him.

  ‘No, please don’t bother to write, Stanley,’ she said coolly. ‘If you do I won’t answer. I just don’t see the point now.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t understand your attitude. I just hope you don’t live to regret it.’

  She bid him good-bye, the last one ever as far as she was concerned, and turned away huffily as he set off down Cromwell Street for the last time.

  So this was it. This was the end of their relationship. It had to end sometime. Nothing lasted for ever. She’d often wondered how and when it would happen; who would instigate it. It was a milestone for her, but probably an everyday thing for him. He was probably always saying goodbye to women.

  But, deep down, Lizzie’s feelings were mixed up. On the one hand she was relieved that she was freed of this drawn out longing, however abruptly it had happened; freed of endless waiting, of anticipating their times together. But on the other hand she was sad that the pleasure would never be repeated. Her greater sadness though, was that those shared hours, which had meant so much to her, seemed to have meant so little to him. They’d brought her torment, turned her into a dishonest, deceitful woman, but they’d brought her release when she needed it. Yet it seemed that for him they were no more than routine; as if his every furlough, anywhere, had yielded some similar diversion with somebody.

  This shock to Lizzie’s system also triggered some harsh assessment of herself. She berated herself for being drawn into a tenuous, dangerous relationship, which put everything that really mattered at risk. When Stanley was around she had stupidly put him before her family, lying and making excuses, just so she could spend a few sordid hours on her back with him. And for what? Why had she allowed herself to become so obsessed for so long when she was not in love with him? Was it simply lust? Had it been stimulating merely because of its forbidden nature? Or was she in love with him after all?

  Whichever, it had been at the expense of her children and her husband, and they were all that really mattered. Now Stanley was gone and there would be no more distractions. From now on, only her family would have her complete attention. She would concentrate wholly on them. She would try her utmost to be more understanding of Ben’s situation, and view it from his standpoint for once. Ben needed her help and, above all, he needed her love. Furthermore, he deserved it. He deserved it infinitely more than Stanley Dando. Nothing would ever again stand in the way of that. She had played away; she had not been caught; now that was an end to it.

  *

  For the whole of that Christmas Jesse Clancey was preoccupied with what he’d witnessed at Sylvia’s house. He could neither sleep properly nor eat. He guessed long ago that Lizzie and Ben Kite had little to do with each other in the matrimonial bed, because of his poor physical condition, but for her to seek comfort in the arms of her own cousin was scandalous. Jesse didn’t like Stanley Dando to begin with. If you offered him a pinch of salt he’d take a block. He knew well enough from Sylvia what Stanley was like.

  Jesse was painfully disillusioned. He’d always considered Lizzie to be virtuous, so never tried to prosper his own interest in her. Nobody was more aware of her wretched situation than he was. He knew how she strove to make certain Ben was cared for, that he wanted for nothing. But Jesse also realised how it all disheartened her. He understood why she was prone to becoming overwhelmed and depressed by it all. Despite that, she was always pleasant when he was there. It was always a pleasure to be in her company.

  Stanley Dando, if there were any virtue in him at all, should never have taken advantage of the situation. Jesse knew from old that as a youth he’d always fancied Lizzie, and was a rival for her affection in the early days. But not lately. Just how long had this unspeakable affair been going on? What abominable secrets were locked in each other’s hearts? The more he thought about it, the more he felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

  Had he come to know Lizzie too well over the last few years? Had he overlooked what was staring him in the face? Why hadn’t he recognised that she needed the physical love of a man? Why hadn’t he seen that her heart was screaming out for love? Her poor husband loved her, there was no question of that, and she knew it better than anybody; but evidently she needed something more. And that something more had driven her to recklessness, seeking from Stanley what wasn’t available from Ben. Yes, that must be it.

  He’d noticed her looking at himself from under her lovely long-lashed eyelids, flirting, it seemed, but he could never ever have taken advantage, since he believed that was simply her nature. There was also the question of Ben. Now he decided that perhaps he should have done something; if only to prevent such attentions from that parasite, Stanley Dando.

  So Jesse came to the opinion that Lizzie, in her vulnerability, was not entirely to blame; that what had happened might be forgivable after all. He began to regard Stanley as the ruthless hunter, Lizzie as the susceptible prey. Jealousy crept in, hand in hand with grudge. Better himself the lover than Stanley; at least he wouldn’t use her and abuse her. He was a fool for not exploiting her need himself. He was a fool for not spotting earlier what was really going on, when he might have been able to do something about it. Stanley was only at home for odd weeks at a time. What about all the months he was away? He could have been her lover himself every day of the year, if only he wasn’t shackled by his cock-eyed conscience, this self-denying nobleness that would not allow him to cross Ben Kite, but which had allowed his heart to be wounded yet again.

  Once more he’d missed his chance.

  *

  It was towards the end of February that Lizzie realised she was pregnant. She missed her monthly bleeding in January and was distraught, praying it was because of tension. In February she missed again, but worse, she was feeling downright sick in the mornings and her stomach felt hard, her breasts tender. This sickly feeling was something different; something she’d never experienced with her other four pregnancies. When she awoke in a morning, she resisted the urge to vomit until she’d rushed outside to the privy in her dressing gown, to do it out of Ben’s sight and earshot.

  She’d made a big mistake nurturing that affair with Stanley Dando. She’d made a grievous mistake and she was profoundly sorry. Now she must live with it and take the consequences. She should have known she could not do what she’d been doing, so recklessly, so deceitfully, and not have to pay the price. There was no way out, either. There was no way out at all, unless she could get rid of it. Yet how could she do that? Donald Clark wouldn’t help. He couldn’t help; abortion was punishable by a long prison sentence. Nobody in their right mind would risk that, even if they agreed with the reason. In any case, if she asked Donald Clark to get rid of it for her he would want to know the top and bottom of it, and she would have to tell him. Nobody must know. Nobody at all must know that Ben was not the father of the child.

  Oh Lord, what a reckless fool she’d been.

  She was too honest to pretend that this child growing in her belly was anything but a catastrophe in her life. But she did not weep. She did not deserve the relief that weeping might bring. What utter shame she would bring on her husband, on herself, and on her children. What indeed would her children think of her, when they grew up and came to know the truth from every foul-mouthed gossip who gleaned satisfaction from spreading mischief? None of her family deserved such persecution because of her immorality. She would have to give up her job as well. How would they ever manage on Ben’s pension with five children to clothe and feed? Oh, God!

  From somewhere she must find the courage to carry on. From somewhere she must find the extra courage to tell Ben. Sooner or later she would have to confess and plead for his forgiveness. And if he wouldn’t forgive her who could blame him? Tongues would wag, fingers would point, and the whole of Kates Hill would know what a loo
se-legged whore Lizzie Kite really was and always had been. She would be a social outcast, shunned by all who claimed to live by that code of honesty, decency and virtue they called respectability. For she could hardly be called respectable now.

  Yet it was partly Ben’s fault. To some extent he’d brought it on her. Who was it that made himself an invalid by going off to war in the first place? Who was it that said he would turn a blind eye if she felt the need to stray outside their marriage? Who was it that seemed so keen to drive her into the beds of other men? And how could you guarantee not to get pregnant when you were so mindlessly, blindly driven to do the very thing that makes a woman pregnant? Maybe she should have thought of that before; to have ensured that he, whose name she could not even bring herself to say anymore, was careful to prevent this happening. Naïvely, she’d believed he would afford her the consideration of being careful; that he would consider her position and protect her. Lord, how stupid she’d been! Now, even if he knew and was challenged, he could turn round and, with an easy conviction, say it must be Ben’s child she was carrying, especially since she’d always allowed him to believe that she and Ben still enjoyed marital relations.

  *

  Easter weekend arrived, 1923. There was little change in Ben’s health, and he decided that perhaps he ought to smoke more. He’d read in The Daily Sketch that, according to French scientists, smoking was beneficial because nicotine formed anti-bacterial chemicals in the system. Fearing yet another epidemic of Spanish flu, the last thing he wanted was to catch it. He suggested to Lizzie that to do so really would see him off. And, besides, he’d just run out of cigarettes, so would she go and fetch him some?

  Henzey could go. And since the others were playing, it might just provide enough time to tell him she was in trouble. So she walked down the entry and called Henzey who was doing toss-ups against the wall in the street with her dress tucked into the elasticised legs of her drawers.

  ‘Henzey, stop doing that. You shouldn’t be showing your legs like that at your age. Anyway, come here, I want you.’

  ‘Oh, Mom. What this time?’ She untucked the skirt and allowed it fall around her legs again, restoring her modesty.

  ‘I want you to run an errand. Come on in, so’s I can give you the money.’

  Henzey followed her mother into the entry. One of Beccy Crump’s hens stalked through the back door and into the room in front of them. Lizzie shooed it out and it flapped its wings in panic, departing hastily. She grabbed her purse off the mantelpiece, gave Henzey two half crowns, then took a string bag hanging on the back of the cellar door.

  ‘Fetch your dad ten Woodbines and a Daily Sketch, and on your way back call at Jack Hardmeat’s for a small joint of pork, about three shillings.’

  But just as Henzey left, Alf Collins called to collect Ben’s bet, and he stayed chatting, thwarting Lizzie’s plan. She must tell Ben soon. It was more than three months now and her waist was thickening. Before long her belly would bulge and it would be obvious to everyone. She hadn’t told a soul she was in trouble. At one time she could have talked to May, but poor May had enough troubles of her own with Emmie the way she was, so it grossly unfair to burden her more. She could have told Daisy Foster, but decided not to. The only other person she could tell was Ben. He’d always been her closest friend, without exception, yet this was one thing that affected him more than anybody, and she hadn’t mustered the courage to break it to him till now.

  Alf took Ben’s bet and left. She waited till the sound of his footsteps in the entry had faded, and sat down, bracing herself to confess everything to her husband. She had no idea how he would take it, but he had to know. Doubtless he would be furious, and she did not relish the thought of an argument. They had never had a serious argument in all their married life and she did not know how it might affect him in his poor state of health. She would break it as gently as she could, with meekness, repentance, and humility.

  ‘Ben,’ she began, ‘there’s something …’

  There were footsteps again in the entry.

  ‘There’s something what?’

  ‘There’s something … in the brewhouse I’d better fetch in,’ she said, abandoning the idea, and stood up to go onto the back yard.

  The back door opened and it was Joe, grimy from his work, but grinning with self satisfaction.

  ‘Hey, guess what. There’s a trip to Rhyl on Easter Monday from the Shoulder of Mutton. I’ve bought some tickets.’

  Lizzie forced a smile. ‘A trip? By charabanc?’

  ‘I reckoned it was about time you all had a change of scenery, even if it is only for a day. And the kids’ll love it.’

  ‘But what about Ben, Joe? I doubt if he’ll feel up to it.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to go, Joe,’ Ben said, ‘but it’s a grand idea if the women and kids go. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing, me old mate. It’s my treat. I ain’t going either, Ben. I’m stopping here to look after you. We’ll have a right old party with the women out the way, eh? I’ll get some beer in, and we’ll ask Jesse Clancey over as well, and Alf Collins.’

  Ben chuckled. ‘Damn my hide. I’ll look forward to that. And you, our Lizzie. That’ll be a lovely day out. Let’s hope the weather holds, eh?’

  ‘That’s just what we could do with, Joe.’ Lizzie’s smile was one of real pleasure. ‘Just wait till the kids know. They’ll be thrilled to pieces.’

  No, this definitely was not the right time to tell Ben of her trouble. Best leave it a couple more days. This trip was fate. There was just a chance that the bouncing and jolting of the charabanc might induce a miscarriage. That could save them all a great deal of heartache. There was no point yet in being panicked into a confession she could not retract.

  When Joe had gone she busied herself with renewed hope, polishing the brass fender and the hearth set with Brassoline till she could see the whole room reflected in it. She dusted the mantel-shelf, moving the black marble clock, the picture of her father, the pin-cushion, the pair of flint vases she’d been given as a wedding present, the letter rack and the two brass candle-sticks. She moved the japanned tea-caddy and a bottle of Ben’s medicine into the cupboard, and put her purse into the pocket of her pinafore, then she heard Henzey walking up the entry. She looked at the clock; Henzey had been a long time; but still not long enough to discuss with Ben what she’d thought of discussing. And a good thing too.

  *

  At about the same time that Lizzie was considering confessing her plight to Ben, Sylvia Atkinson was peering through her sitting-room window, waiting for Jesse Clancey. He was due to collect his money, and the kettle was on the boil over a low gas ready to drench the tea leaves in her best electroplated teapot. Since Christmas Jesse had seemed noticeably more responsive, more amenable than at any time since they’d renewed their friendship. It gave her fresh hope. A few days earlier she had suggested, casually, that with the weather picking up it might be an opportunity for the two of them to take Kenneth to the castle grounds one Sunday afternoon. She told him how the lad had asked if Mr Clancey could go with them, and Jesse had warmed to the idea. ‘Bless him,’ he’d said. Today, when Jesse arrived, she would suggest that since tomorrow was Easter Sunday, and the weather was set fair, it might be an ideal opportunity.

  Sylvia was not averse to using Kenneth as a means of gaining Jesse’s attention for herself. As the months and years drifted by she was growing more afraid at the prospect of extended widowhood. Spending the rest of her life without a man did not appeal. When you were the wrong side of thirty – nearing thirty-seven, to be more precise – the likelihood of trapping an eligible man became increasingly remote. No doubt it would be easy to ensnare a fancy-man; at the crooking of a finger any number of married men would come scurrying clandestinely to her bedroom with its flouncey feminine drapes. But why should she settle for sharing? She wanted a man to herself; a friend; a companion; a handyman; a mentor; not just a lover.

  Jesse Clancey was probably as good as sh
e would get. He was, after all, a man of great integrity. She often thought about the times, years ago, when they were courting. Somehow he was never quite attainable then, rendering him all the more attractive. He was somehow elusive, frustratingly non-committal, while she was turning mental somersaults devising ways to secure him. More than anything she wanted him to marry her, and was heart-sick when they parted. She’d had such beautiful dreams about spending the rest of their lives together. Then came that bitterly cold New Year’s Eve in 1907 – good gracious, was it really more than fifteen years ago? Fifteen years since Jesse confessed his feelings for Lizzie Bishop? Eventually, when she met James Atkinson and committed herself to him, she lived out those dreams with him instead. But she never loved him as intensely, or as whole-heartedly as she loved Jesse Clancey. Jesse Clancey was her first real love; she first knew womanhood at the caressing hands of Jesse Clancey. After all these years she’d forgiven him his puerile preoccupation with Lizzie Bishop, though she’d neither forgiven nor forgotten Lizzie for having such big, alluring hazel eyes, such a beautiful smile and a feminine slenderness she could not then help admiring herself. Yet Lizzie had slipped his net, to be caught in another – thankfully. Sylvia was content that Lizzie would not be a rival nowadays; not after all this time. So, using feminine wiles and any other devious methods she could devise, Sylvia decided that she would marry Jesse Clancey this time.

  The glorious aroma of home cooking, timed to coincide with his arrival, greeted him.

  ‘Sit down a bit, Jesse,’ she suggested. ‘The kettle’s on and I’ve made some beef stew. Have some. It’ll keep you going?’

  ‘Sylvia, you’re as good as gold,’ he said, warming his hands in front of the fire. ‘How did you know as I’d be clammed to death? If that’s the stew I can smell I could do justice to a dollop. I’ve had nothing to eat since pig squealing this morning.’

  ‘You must be starving.’