The Dressmaker's Daughter

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Well, I could give a plate of stew some bell-oil, Sylvia … What’s tickling you?’

  ‘Oh, Jesse, you do come out with some expressions. We’ll eat together. There’s today’s paper over there if you want to take a look at it while I’m in the scullery.’

  Jesse reached the newspaper from its rack. While he was half way through reading about Germany’s continued failure to pay war reparations, Sylvia called him. He put down the newspaper and joined her in the scullery, but she suggested that they eat together in the dining room. It needn’t keep him more than a quarter of an hour, then he could be back at work again. So she swiftly laid the table and carried in two bowls of stew and a loaf of home-baked bread, all on a silver tray.

  These little touches impressed Jesse. Sylvia had certainly changed over the years, and it had been for the better. She was much more a lady now, and not without some style, he thought. She had mellowed wonderfully and knew how to please a man. And if this show of consideration was anything to go by, she was patently still interested in him, which flattered him enormously, although he was a bit wary still of her intentions.

  ‘There you are, Jesse. Let’s see if that lot will stretch your waistcoat.’

  ‘You come out with some tidy expressions yourself, Sylvia. Stretch me waistcoat, eh?’

  She began to cut a thick slice from the loaf. ‘It’s what my father often used to say to our Stanley when he was a boy.’

  ‘How is Stanley, by the way? Have you heard from him?’ He took a spoonful of stew and put it to his lips gingerly, testing it for heat before committing it to his mouth.

  ‘I had a letter from him in February, posted in Egypt. Just to thank me for letting him stay here over Christmas. He said how he enjoyed being here all on his own.’

  Jesse swallowed hard, almost choking. ‘He must’ve felt like a bloody hermit not seeing a soul all that time. Mind you, I did see him going round to spend an hour with Ben Kite once,’ he said experimentally, and took another spoonful.

  ‘Oh, I think he took quite a shine to Ben these last few years. Said he always enjoyed talking to him. Said what a decent chap he is.’

  Jesse looked at his bowl of stew thoughtfully, dipping a piece of bread into it while he chewed a lump of beef. ‘I suppose he never mentioned Lizzie?’

  ‘No, never. I don’t think he’d got much time for Lizzie.’

  ‘Fancy. Who’d have thought it?’

  His regulated cynicism went over Sylvia’s head. She was rearranging her meal, seeking to locate a piece of carrot to go with a piece of parsnip already on her spoon. ‘Oh, he used to be sweet on Lizzie years ago. So had you, Jesse, as I recall.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘But that’s all water under the bridge.’

  He avoided the remark. ‘I’m surprised he’s never married, you know, Sylvia.’

  ‘Never married? Our Stanley? Oh, Jesse.’ She gave a little laugh of derision. ‘Of course he married. He married in South Africa.’

  Jesse looked at her and gasped. ‘What! … Bugger me. I never knew that … and neither did anybody else.’ The image of Stanley and Lizzie writhing naked on the floor of Sylvia’s sitting-room plagued him yet again. ‘How come he never brought her home?’

  ‘Because Mother and Father never knew. It was all a big secret. I’m the only one he told, Jesse. Now you know as well, so I trust you to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘But why should he want to keep it secret? Was he ashamed o’ the wench, or what?’

  ‘I think it was the other way round. Her family were bitterly opposed to her marrying him. They thought she was too good for him, I suppose, and it would have hurt his pride to admit it to Mother and Father.’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, something was wrong, Jesse. She left him in the end. Maybe she was made to leave him. I don’t know.’

  ‘Has he got any kids by her?’

  ‘One. I imagine he’ll go and see the child – and her – when he gets time off in Rhodesia. I suspect it’s one of the reasons he volunteered for secondment out there.’

  Jesse at once began to wonder whether he should tell Lizzie, but just as quickly decided against it. Best not to interfere in something like this; best not infer that he knew about her affair. In any case, if Stanley was reasonable and honest he should already have confessed that he was married while they were lying together. But knowing Stanley, it was more than likely he’d not, especially if he hadn’t even told his mother and father.

  ‘Let’s not talk about our Stanley, Jesse.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘Do you remember we agreed it might be nice to take Kenneth to the castle grounds one Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘If you’re not doing anything this Sunday, it might be a good time to go, being Easter. There’s bound to be something on. Would you be able to?’

  ‘I’m doing nothing else, Sylvia. Mother’ll be all right on her own for an hour or two.’

  ‘Good. I thought, if you’d like to come back here afterwards I could cook us all an evening meal instead of eating at midday. How does that appeal to you?’

  ‘Sounds good to me. But I should hate you to go to any trouble on my account.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all. Kenneth and I still have to eat.’

  Jesse finished his stew, drank his tea and declared he must be on his way.

  Next day, wearing his best Sunday suit and bowler hat, he called for Sylvia and young Kenneth at two o’ clock. They walked to the entrance of the Castle grounds and began their perambulation up steep paths winding to the keep and the courtyard. The day was fine, but cool, and there were crowds of people, wrapped up warm, but all in holiday mood, enjoying the walks and picnicking. Kenneth asked if Jesse would take him to the top of the keep, so Jesse obliged, leading the way, negotiating the worn, spiralling stone steps to the castellations at the top.

  The view was tremendous. Trams and cars, like perfect toys, glided along the Georgian streets below them. Beyond the hills of Dudley the landscape seemed to sink into a smoky basin, which was Tipton and West Bromwich. Jesse pointed out where he lived, beyond the grey hulk of St. John’s church on the hill across the valley. On the opposite side of the town, at Eve Hill, they could see its sister church, St James’, almost identical. The view to the south yielded another basin, housing the forges and foundries of Old Hill, Cradley Heath and Halesowen, the iron and steel works of Brierley Hill, from which the infernal fires of hell seemed to discharge. Yet this murky, fume-bound area was rimmed by the pleasant, green hills of Clent and Romsley in the distance, a contrast as picturesque as could be found anywhere.

  ‘How high are we, Mr Clancey?’

  ‘Ooh, nearly nine hundred feet above sea level, they reckon.’

  ‘Is that high?’

  ‘You’d think so if it was a wall and you fell off it. Look east … over there …’ He stooped to the child’s height and pointed. ‘… there’s ne’er a town or village higher than Dudley till you get to the Ural Mountains in Russia – hundreds and hundreds of miles away. How about that, eh?’

  ‘But look down there, Mr Clancey,’ the boy yelled. He pointed to the foot of the castle keep. ‘There are some old cannons. See? Some boys are sitting across them. May I?’

  ‘If you’re ready to go back down now.’

  At the foot of the keep Sylvia was waiting for them, sitting on an outcrop of limestone that was part of the ruins. Jesse sat beside her and she smiled at him affectionately while Kenneth clambered onto one of the ancient cannons to join another boy sitting astride it.

  ‘Did he enjoy the view?’

  ‘Oh, young lads ain’t interested in views, Sylvia. As soon as we were up there he wanted to come back down to sit on one of the cannons.’

  ‘I expect you were the same when you were his age.’ An errant wisp of hair was blowing about her face appealingly in the breeze. She swept it behind her ear.

  ‘I might’ve been a sight worse. It’s been that long I can scarcely remember.’

  ‘I must say, J
esse, Kenneth seems to have taken to you,’ she said speculatively.

  ‘Well, he seems easy enough to please. He’s a likeable chap, an’ all.’

  ‘If things had turned out differently he might have been your son, you know, Jesse. But it wasn’t to be, was it?’

  He shrugged. He had no answer. Or rather, he had no answer that he wished to discuss.

  ‘How come you never got married?’

  ‘’Cause either me or the right women were never in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘You must have had other lady-friends after me.’

  ‘Nobody I wanted to wed.’

  ‘I often wonder what it would have been like married to you, Jesse … how many children we might have had … who they’d be like. Do you ever wonder that?’

  ‘Something I never think about, Sylvia. I can’t see the point.’

  She uttered a self deprecating laugh. ‘Oh, Jesse. Humour me, why don’t you? Here am I, nearly three years a widow, trying to reintroduce a touch of romance into my dull life.’

  ‘God’s truth, Sylvia,’ he chuckled, ‘I admire your forthrightness, but you and me are as different as silk and glass paper. Even more now than then.’

  ‘But that’s what makes it all the more interesting.’

  ‘Maybe it depends on how you view it. For a start, you speak beautiful, Sylvia. No Black Country twang for you. But hark at me. I’m as broad as they come and I can’t alter it. I’d show you up in company. You’d cringe every time I opened me mouth.’

  She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No, I wouldn’t. The way you speak hardly matters. It’s the person that matters. In any case, I’d have you speaking the King’s English in no time.’

  ‘And all me customers would think I’d swallowed a bloody Oxford dictionary. No, my wench, we’re worlds apart now. It ain’t just the way we speak. You’ve got style and class … Me? I’m as common as muck. There’s a world of difference.’

  ‘Oh, Jesse, don’t belittle yourself. We are different, you and I. But it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me, Sylvia.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Jesse. The difference would make it all the more interesting. It’s when two people are the same that life gets boring. Think about it.’

  Kenneth slid off the cannon and came running over to them. ‘There’s a man on an ice-cream cart down there,’ he yelled excitedly. ‘Can we go and buy one, please?’

  Jesse smiled affectionately at the boy. ‘’Course we can,’ he agreed. ‘Run to him and order one for each of us. We’ll soon be along to pay for them.’

  Chapter 19

  The bumping and shaking of the charabanc on Easter Monday failed to do the trick for Lizzie. All the way to Rhyl, and all the way back, she fancied she could feel the unwanted child shaking loose inside her. But another week passed and her skirts felt ever tighter round her waist, and her brassiere tighter under her breasts. Maybe if she threw herself down their narrow, bent staircase it would shake this cuckoo free and leave her clean and whole again.

  When she first realised her body was sustaining this obstinate growth she should have sought one of those back-street women who could rid her of it. But, doubtless, some blabbermouth would find out and gossip. It was too late in any case, and too dangerous; not that she cared much for her own well-being – she had no great desire to even live through all this and the shame that was inevitably to come – but her children and Ben depended on her too much to contemplate any such risk now.

  Inevitably, fate offered Lizzie the ideal opportunity to confess to Ben that she was in trouble. Herbert disturbed her in her sleep by gently shaking her, trying to wake her, early one Sunday morning in April.

  ‘I’m off fishing with Trixie Jukes, Mom,’ he informed her in a whisper, concerned not to wake his father. ‘I’ll be back dinnertime.’

  She opened her eyes and, at once, felt the familiar nausea that in itself was often sufficiently intense to wake her. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Quarter to seven.’

  Lizzie heard the back door open and shut, followed by his footsteps as he ran down the entry with his home made fishing rod. She rolled over, trying to defeat the awful sickly feeling and recapture her sleep. But it persisted, and she felt uncomfortably hot, perspiring. She heaved a sigh of frustration as she pushed the covers back and forced herself out of bed. The floorboards creaked under her feet as she emptied the jug of cold water into the bowl on the washstand and splashed it on her face. As she grabbed the towel to dry herself she felt as if she was going to faint, so she padded over to the window and parted the curtains a little to open the sash for a breath of cold air. Outside, the sky, though overcast, seemed bleached out and white.

  She collapsed to the floor.

  Ben’s insistent tapping on her shoulders and hoarsely whispering her name eventually roused her, and she looked about, surprised to find herself lying in a heap on the linoleum.

  ‘You must have fainted, Lizzie.’ He fought for breath after the shock and the subsequent exertion of trying to wake her. ‘A thump woke me up … It must’ve been you falling. Are you all right, my pretty wench?’

  She eased herself up, clutching the bedclothes for support, and sat on the bed, still feeling sick. All at once the nausea was impossible to contain. ‘God, I need the chamber pot.’ She reached under the bed and retrieved it. Thankfully it was still unused. She retched into it at once, and immediately felt better, except for the bitter taste of vomit lingering in her mouth. She sat quietly for a while, head bowed, till she felt confident of standing up again. Ben watched intently. Once more she went over to the bowl of water and splashed it on her face and around her lips, then dried herself, leaving the towel hanging on the rail at the side of the wash-stand.

  ‘I might as well get dressed now I’m up,’ she said feigning a brightness that was eluding her. She pulled her night-dress over her head and reached for her brassiere lying on the ottoman, her back towards Ben so he should not see her belly. She glanced round awkwardly and saw with alarm that he was watching her, a look of disquiet in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t look at me getting dressed.’

  ‘You used to like it. Watching you undress, at any rate.’

  She couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Of course, he was right.

  ‘Have you got something to tell me, our Lizzie?’

  At once she felt herself flush. ‘Such as what?’

  He eased himself back on his pillow and put his hands behind his head, almost casually. ‘Well, adding two and two together I can generally make four,’ he said, with an evenness that she found unnerving.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She stepped into her drawers and pulled them up. ‘Stop talking in riddles.’

  ‘Please don’t take me for a fool, my flower.’ His voice was low, to save waking the children. ‘Over the last few weeks I’ve noticed your waist thicken up … and your titties and your belly getting rounder … I’ve watched you get up in a morning looking pale and fretted … I’ve watched you run downstairs, outside to the privy – to throw up, I reckon. Now if you ain’t pregnant, what’s up with you?’

  So he knew. Dear Lord, he knew already.

  She caught a glimpse of her belly in the dressing table mirror. It was rounder; not by much, but it was there; hard, like a football. And he, knowing every inch of her so well, could tell. She sat on the bed again and looked into his eyes with a candour that had been missing for too long. There was no sense in denying it. No sense at all.

  So this was the moment. This was the disastrous moment she’d been dreading. The inevitable crisis, that had loomed ever since she’d felt the weight of this bastard child in her belly, was about to be resolved at last, one way or the other.

  ‘Yes, I am pregnant, Ben.’

  Ben’s sigh was heartfelt. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Two months, I suppose.’ She looked down at her knees now, unable to face him; utterly ashamed.

  ‘About the same as me then. Hav
e you seen the doctor?’

  She shook her head and her eyes brimmed with tears at his surprising placidity.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner, eh? Why the hell didn’t you tell me before this happened, and I had to coax it out of you?’

  She sat on the bed, her back erect, her hands clasped together between her thighs taking this unaccountably passive scolding, knowing that something infinitely more severe was deserved. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl being reprimanded for a minor misdemeanour by an unruffled teacher irritatingly sure of his standing. Yet this was infinitely more serious. Why didn’t he shout and rage? That was what she really deserved; that was what she would have expected; that was what she desperately needed; not this composed, unwarranted, disturbing reasonableness. Why didn’t he take her by the shoulders and violently shake her till her silly, senseless head fell off? Why didn’t he slap her across her stupid face for being so recklessly foolish, and for putting him through a silent agony he’d obviously endured for weeks? Tears fell down her cheeks and she let out a great sob of a sigh that released months of pent-up anxiety and fear. Her tears flowed in a torrent as her face locked, contorted with emotion and self-pity; and an ardent desire to be thoroughly, humiliatingly punished.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Lizzie? You know I like things straight. Am I such a big, bad ogre?’

  She shook her head and bit her lip to stop herself wailing out loud. ‘Why do you think? … Because I was ashamed … Oh, Ben, I’m so ashamed.’

  She wanted to throw herself upon him for forgiveness, but she did not feel worthy of it. Easy forgiveness would be too kind. She remained sitting, facing the window, uncompanionable, craving fire and brimstone and anything else his justifiable retribution could sling at her. She felt utterly miserable, wretched, but grateful that it was all out in the open at last. Her confession could not now be unsaid. Her sin could not be undone.

  ‘Does he know?’

  She shook her head again, still avoiding his eyes, and a tear fell onto her bare thigh. ‘I don’t want him to know … ever. It’s not his business now. It’s mine. It’s mine alone.’