by Nancy Carson
In May 1928, the second anniversary of Ben Kite’s death passed poignantly. It was a day when memories of him crowded Lizzie’s thoughts. Even the weather, sunny and warm with white racing clouds, was similar, rendering those memories more vivid. The children were unusually subdued that day. Henzey talked about her father at the tea table, and wondered what on earth he would have thought about the Equal Franchise Bill giving the vote to women over twenty-one. Lizzie replied that he would have approved.
Things had improved materially. Three of the family were now working, so they were better off. Also Lizzie felt free; not only from Ben’s confining disabilities, but also from Stanley Dando’s thrall. The only dark spot on her horizon was the prospect of old Ezme Clancey standing bigotedly in the way of marriage to Jesse. But Ezme would not live forever, though Lizzie wished her no harm.
On the first Saturday of June, Jesse was due to call at eight o’ clock to take Lizzie out. Usually, they went to The Shoulder of Mutton, and all their friends and neighbours were aware of the romance that had blossomed between them. Most wished them well, and nobody made any reference to Ben in their company. Everybody knew Jesse and respected him, and everybody knew that Lizzie deserved some pleasure in life. No one begrudged either their happiness.
At half past eight Jesse still hadn’t arrived and she, sitting ready in her best frock, began to think something must be wrong. But a few minutes later she heard footsteps in the entry and she stood up, eager to go. The door opened, and Jesse appeared, looking overwrought.
‘It’s Mother,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I think she’s had a stroke. Can you get Herbert quick to help me get her to bed. She’s too heavy to shift on my own. Then I’ll have to fetch the doctor.’
Lizzie was suddenly flustered. ‘You’d best go back, then, Jesse. I’ll get Herbert. We’ll be there in a minute. Henzey will fetch Donald Clark.’
He disappeared at once and she directed Alice to fetch Herbert from upstairs where he was listening to the crystal set Jesse had given him at Christmas. Henzey duly rushed to fetch the doctor, and Alice was told she must stay home with Maxine in case they needed her. As soon as Herbert came downstairs, he and Lizzie went to the dairy house.
In the verandah, rows of potted plants stood on shelves that were badly in need of a fresh coat of whitewash. A marmalade cat, said to be a good mouser, sat and watched, unconcerned and half asleep while Jesse bent over his mother. She was slumped on the quarry-tiled floor. He looked up as soon as he heard Lizzie and Herbert arrive. Ezme was conscious, but she was dribbling saliva uncontrollably down the side of her face and neck, her eyelids were half-closed, and her face was contorted. Since she was such a hefty woman there was no way Jesse could have lifted her by himself. The three of them together managed to man-handle her through the hall and upstairs to her bedroom, though not without a gargantuan struggle. They put her to bed and Lizzie did her best to make the old lady as comfortable as possible, wiping away the stream of saliva while they awaited the doctor.
It was the first time Lizzie had been upstairs in the dairy house, and she scanned the bedroom quickly. It was large, cold and bland, with no pictures hanging from the rail. Sun-bleached curtains and nets hung limp with age and dust at the sash window. Old Ezme was evidently not a tidy woman, and strewn all over the rugs and linoleum were off-cuts of material and stray threads of cotton. Mannequins as old as Moses stood spookily erect in a corner, connected by cobwebs, looking like headless, limbless corpses. A treadle sewing machine stood under the window alongside an ancient, wooden spinning wheel. Lizzie could scarcely believe that this collection of junk was the material substance of the continuous feud with her mother. It was all so different from the image of competence and regimentation Ezme evoked as a piano teacher. A tin of Mansion Polish, a broom, and a pair of dusters wouldn’t come amiss, Lizzie thought. When she and Jesse married, there would have to be drastic changes in this house.
Lizzie tended to the old lady for about twenty minutes before they heard a motor car turn into the entry and lurch to a halt in the yard. Jesse looked out of the window and saw Donald Clark and Henzey step out of a black Morris Cowley. His hair was grey and his alcoholic flush was surpassed only by the glory of his nose. Henzey looked pleased with herself, having had her first ride ever in a motor car. They knocked twice on the verandah door, then entered.
Jesse hailed them, guiding them to the right bedroom. The doctor entered first. He put his bag down on the chair at the side of the bed and opened it as Henzey followed him in. His hands were shaking more than ever as he took out his stethoscope and opened the front of the patient’s blouse to listen to her heartbeat. Jesse waited anxiously for the diagnosis while Donald conducted several simple tests on Ezme.
Eventually, Donald put his instruments away and closed his bag. ‘Severe stroke, I’m afraid.’ Jesse could smell drink on his breath. ‘It’s taken her left side and, for the time being, she can’t open her eyes properly, though I’ve no doubt that’ll rectify itself. So will her ability to swallow properly. I’m pretty sure she can’t hear, either.
‘Another stroke like this would see her off good and proper. Just keep her comfy and see she gets plenty to drink. In the morning try her with some solid food. Her eyes might have opened all right by then. Try and get her to talk as well … I can’t tell yet, but she might have lost her speech as well, see? And er … something else I was going to say … Damn, I’ve forgotten what it was now … Ah, yes … look for signs that she can hear all right.’
‘Is there anything you can give her, Donald?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything she could take, yet, Jesse. More than anything she needs complete rest. I’ll drop by in the morning. If she shows no sign of an early recovery I’ll arrange for the district nurse to come in every day.’
*
Without mentioning it to anyone, Henzey arranged to have her hair cut after work on her half day. She had it styled in an Egyptian bob and was delighted with the result. The fringe framed her face beautifully, and accentuated the slant of her big blue eyes, whilst the straight cut at the neck heightened her elegance and enhanced the youthful inclination of her head. She felt good, and it was exactly the tonic she needed to perk her up after a crisis with the latest young man in her life.
‘What have you done to your hair?’ her mother asked when she saw her.
Henzey twirled around and her hair flared out, following in a spiral, then fell back perfectly into place. ‘Don’t you like it?’ Her smile was vivacious.
‘Well it won’t be any trouble by the looks of it. How much did it cost?’
‘Oh, that’s a secret. It doesn’t matter how much it’s cost; I like it. At least it’s modern.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘You’re getting to be a proper flapper, our Henzey.’
Henzey laughed too. ‘How’s your mother-in-law? Still hanging on?’ The gentle sarcasm was well-intentioned.
‘Oh, she’s a lot better. I went round dinnertime. She’s got her appetite back, and no mistake. She’d eat a man off his horse. There’s no wonder she’s the size she is.’
‘Can she see now as well?’
‘Yes, her eyelids are back to normal, and she’s talking all right, but she still can’t hear. She hasn’t got the use back in her left side, either. Nor do I think she ever will. I reckon she’ll be bedridden for the rest of her life. It’ll be no life for poor old Jesse.’
‘Yes, poor old Jesse. Perhaps you ought to marry him now.’
‘Let’s wait and see how the old duch goes on first, eh? I’ll pop round tonight and clean for him again. I’ve been cleaning there the last two nights. Jesse’s done his best over the years, but that house was in a terrible state. It was absolutely riffy. I’ll take some Sunlight with me again, and my scrubbing brush. I don’t think it’s had a good clean since the old queen died. Poor Jesse shouldn’t have to live like that. I’ll take some clean sheets over for his bed, as well.’
*
While Lizzie cleaned and polished the living room
at the dairy house, Jesse assisted eagerly and ably. Soon, she was satisfied it had more of a woman’s touch. Jesse returned, having just filled the coal scuttle in the cellar.
‘I’ll go and settle your mother for the night, Jesse. Then I’ll change your bed for you.’
‘You’re as good as gold, Lizzie. I’ll pop round to the outdoor licence and fetch a jug of beer while you’re doing that.’
She climbed the stairs and tiptoed into the bedroom that she’d made clean and tidy two days before. Ezme was resting, motionless, her eyes closed, her silver hair glistening in the reddening evening light from the window. Lizzie stood and watched her for a few seconds. The old lady did not budge, nor even appear to breathe. She looked peaceful, and Lizzie guessed that she’d passed away quietly in her sleep.
So Ezme had met her Maker at last. She’d always been a tyrant. Always partial to a drop or two of whisky, a loyal member of the Mothers’ Union, and devout churchgoer and stand-in organist. Yet so devout in her Christian fellowship as to take enormous pleasure in riling Eve over something as trivial as dressmaking.
So the time was fast approaching when Lizzie herself would take the name Clancey, and her joy for her own good fortune was greater than her sorrow for Ezme’s demise. Over the past few days and evenings she’d got to know her way around the house, and she reckoned that with a bit more cleaning and some decorating she could happily settle there with Jesse. It was big, with plenty of room for all of them.
She tip-toed over to the window and looked out, excited about the future. The sun had almost set over to her left, and the western sky glowed orange and purple, streaked with ribbons of green. Its blaze of vibrant colour matched her own new mood of excitement. Dark clouds loomed, tinged with gold and, as she contemplated marriage and what she should wear for her wedding, she tip-toed back to take another last look at Ezme Clancey lying finally at rest.
‘Heft me up, Lizzie, wut? I’m bostin’ for a piddle.’
A wry smile spread over Lizzie’s face. ‘You had me fooled that time, you crafty old devil,’ she said under her breath. But she failed to stifle a chuckle. She put her arms under the old lady’s armpits and struggled to heave her up, then pulled the bedclothes back and helped her swing her huge, dimpled legs round. After a gigantic tussle she managed to get Ezme to her feet, and shuffled her, like five hundredweight of cataplectic blubber, an inch at a time over to her commode next to the bed.
There was an oil lamp on the bedside table and, beside it, a box of matches. Lizzie lit the lamp and trimmed it. As it glowed, Ezme hitched up her night-dress about her backside and peered around her from her throne.
‘I see as that district nuss’s bin doin’ a bit o’ cleanin.’
‘District nurse my foot! It’s me that’s done all the cleaning, never mind the district nurse. My God, you need be glad I don’t hold all your old spitefulness against you.’
But of course, Ezme could not hear her. Lizzie, however, heard Jesse return and open a cupboard door. The chink of glass told her he was bringing the jug of beer and two glasses upstairs.
‘Cost help me off, now, Lizzie?’
Together, they reversed the procedure, and Ezme was settled into her bed for the night. Lizzie took the chamber pot from the commode to empty it downstairs. Jesse met her at the bedroom door carrying the beer and two glasses.
‘Why don’t you strip your bed while I empty this up the yard, Jesse?’ she suggested. ‘Then we’ll put some clean sheets on. I’ve just settled your mother for the night.’
When she returned, Jesse had lit the gaslight and stripped his bed, and was stuffing his pillows into fresh, clean pillow cases.
‘I can do this myself,’ he said. ‘Pour the beer and let’s have a drink now.’
She did as he suggested. While she sipped her beer Lizzie watched him expertly change the bedclothes, as deftly as any woman could.
‘You know, Jesse, I thought your mother had passed away when I first came up,’ she said softly. Her voice sounded young and clear. ‘She looked that peaceful, and I started to think we could soon be married. But it was a false dawn. Next thing she was wide awake. She wanted a pee.’ She sat on the bed and laughed at her mistake, just as he’d finished smoothing it out. ‘But I’m so annoyed at her. All these years of persecuting my mother – and me, for that matter – but she’s not too proud to accept my help now she’s poorly. Convenient, isn’t it?’
He made no reply. He knew Lizzie’s comments were justified. But he was glad of her help. He reached up and pulled the chain on the gaslight, dimming it. Then, he took his own glass of beer from the dressing table, drank, and sat beside her. Lizzie looked into his eyes, smiled, then reached over to put her glass down. His hand gently stroked the back of her neck, and she shivered at the delightful sensation. He put his own drink down, his eyes never leaving hers. It was easy to see what was on his mind.
‘I want you, Lizzie,’ he whispered.
Lizzie swallowed hard. ‘I want you as well, Jesse. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get round to it.’
‘I’ve always wanted you.’
Slowly their lips met, and she kicked off her shoes, anticipating the next move. He eased her backwards gently onto the bed, and she felt the welcome weight of his body upon her, cautiously at first, then urgent. Her heart started pounding then as it had not done for a long, long time. She felt him undo the row of buttons at the front of her dress, and in no time the floor was strewn with their clothes. At last she was lying naked beneath him, and her arms were around his neck. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling with anticipation, and she heard herself breathing his name and saying, ‘Love me, Jesse. Love me.’
And he did.
And after they had made love again they lay still, content just to be in each other’s arms. They spoke little, thinking their own identical thoughts, weaving their own identical dreams.
*
Old Ezme Clancey showed little improvement over the next three months. The stroke had taken the use of her left side completely, and her hearing had not returned, though that didn’t stop her talking all the more. The district nurse called every morning, and Lizzie brought Ezme her dinner, and helped her onto her commode every dinner time. When Jesse finished his round, usually early in the afternoon, he would do whatever was necessary after he’d stabled and fed Ramsbottom. Donald Clark called every week, and examined Ezme, but his advice was always the same: don’t allow her to exert herself, nor over eat. Some hope of that, Lizzie thought.
Every evening now, Lizzie would send either Alice or Maxine to the dairy house with two plates or basins, covered in white tea-towels, containing dinner for him and his mother. It was as easy to cook for seven as it was for five, she maintained, and Jesse gave her extra money to buy food because of it.
The extra bit of cash was useful, but no longer were the Kites as impoverished as when Ben was alive. Jesse had also given Herbert a handsome rise and he was earning good money now for a lad of fifteen. Henzey had also just received another rise and, next Monday, Alice was due to start work in the offices of Bean Cars at Waddams Pool, just half a mile away. It meant that Maxine could stay on at school till she was sixteen. She entertained ideas of becoming a professional cellist and, if Lizzie could afford for her to go to a college of music when the time came, she said she would be happy to allow it.
Alice found working for a living entirely preferable to being at school. Eventually she wanted to become a private secretary; it held such glamorous appeal. To begin with, however, she was content to do filing and running into the factory with memoranda and works orders. Even for a girl it was fascinating to watch motor-cars at various stages of construction.
Alice was not without admirers herself. She was petite and pretty. Although she and Henzey were sisters, you could have been forgiven for not connecting them. Henzey was about four inches taller at five feet six inches, and their colouring was different. Even at fourteen, Alice, like Henzey, was a fine-looking girl, but more like her
mother than either of her sisters.
When it came to dancing, the new national obsession, Henzey and Alice were no different from other young people. Due to their ever-increasing interest they practised, listening to dance music on the wireless in the front room, with the sofa and the table moved to one side. Roller skating offered similar pleasures. Henzey had been to the rink many times with Jack Harper, her latest boyfriend, and Alice with her school friends, so both could roller skate reasonably well. They decided to go together one Friday evening in early September when Henzey, in crisis again with Jack, had declined an invitation to go for a walk with him in the castle grounds. At the skating rink they met two other young men, well heeled and well spoken.
The following Saturday, Lizzie found herself in the street at the bottom of the entry being sweet-talked by the same two charmers, both in their early twenties, standing by a gleaming black motor-car. They were taking the girls to the twenty-first birthday party of one of them.
‘Don’t forget what we agreed, Henzey,’ Lizzie called as Henzey climbed into the car. ‘Alice is in your charge, and I want you back here by midnight at the very latest.’
She saw Henzey roll her eyes with embarrassment as the car pulled away.
Lizzie was concerned about Henzey. She was sixteen, and her stunning looks ensured that practically every man she passed in the street turned his head. Men would always be attracted to her, and that was her worry. Not all men were honourable; not all men were gentlemen. She hoped, prayed, that Henzey would not be like her. Lizzie saw herself as a woman of easy virtue, even though her virtue was corrupted with the best of intentions. Thus, she was beginning to judge Henzey by her own past behaviour; beginning to fear that Henzey was old enough, physically and mentally, to find herself in situations where she could be taken advantage of. If she got into trouble it would be calamitous; an utter tragedy. She must grab every opportunity, therefore, to coach her, and ensure that she was in no doubt what could happen.
So it was ironic that, whilst her two oldest daughters had been ferried back home before their deadline – albeit after a thoroughly eventful evening – and were now tucked up safely in bed, Lizzie entered the back door with her own stockings in her pocket, adamant that one wayward woman in the family was more than enough.
