‘Come on, Ruth, we’re going to be late.’ Lizzie threw her shawl round her shoulders, picked up her lunch and made for the door, her sister hurrying behind her, still grumbling about the cold, dark morning, and the job.
Cottenly was a harsh and cruel place to be venturing out at this time of the morning, especially in January. The wind from the moors whistled and shrieked through the bare tree branches and round the skirts of the sisters as they battled through the darkness. It was a good mile walk and mostly downhill for which they were thankful, except when the narrow cobbled street was iced over and treacherous. Today however there was no sign of freezing and the journey would be made safely and swiftly. The return journey later would be a different matter, when the uphill climb would be torturous after a ten-hour shift, with no more than a couple of short breaks in which to sit themselves down on the mill floor and rest their weary limbs and aching feet.
Today, however, Lizzie’s exhaustion would soon be forgotten in the excitement of preparing for the evening ahead. At the moment Ruth seemed to be the more excited of the two.
‘Can I do yer hair, Lizzie?’ she enquired as she half skipped, half fought against the wind by Lizzie’s side. ‘How will yer wear it?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘What do you think?’
‘I could lend you my mother-of-pearl comb, the one our dad gave me for Christmas.’ Ruth turned to peer at her sister through the darkness, ‘I could pile your hair high on your head and slip in the comb for fancy. Or leave it long and fasten it in the nape of yer neck.’
‘Aye, I think we’ll do that. George likes it loose.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, what’s it like to go out with somebody? A boy, I mean?’
Lizzie smiled in the darkness. ‘All right, I suppose. Just like going out with a girl,’ she teased.
‘Except that girlfriends don’t kiss each other, like you and George round the back of the chapel.’
‘Ruth Stanford, you’ve been spying on us.’
‘I haven’t, honest. I found some holly with berries on and was taking it to the grave. I didn’t know you were there until it was too late.’ Ruth giggled. ‘What does it feel like to be kissed? Really kissed, I mean, like George kisses you, for ages and ages?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘I doubt it, not if I don’t develop!’
Lizzie frowned. ‘What do you mean, develop?’
‘My chest. If I stay as flat as this nobody’ll ever want to kiss me.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’ll fill out all in good time.’
‘I doubt it. I’m sure your chest had developed long before you were my age.’
‘Well if it had I certainly can’t remember,’ Lizzie fibbed, to make her sister feel better. ‘Besides, you’re lovely as you are. With a face like yours no one would even look at your chest.’
‘You’re just saying that.’ Ruth paused. ‘Although I think I am developing a bit.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ The buzzer from the works interrupted the conversation, much to Lizzie’s relief. ‘Come on, or we’ll be late, then we’ll have old Charlesworth on our backs.’
The street outside the works was bustling now with scurrying figures, heads bowed against the wind, all heading in the direction of the gates.
‘It’s enough to waken the dead,’ commented Ruth, as the sound of the buzzer grew louder. ‘I’m glad we don’t live down here. I don’t know how the little ones ever get any sleep.’
Lizzie agreed it would be awful to live down here, but for a different reason. The long rows of houses stretched right and left, blackened by the soot and smoke from the mill chimneys, each house a replica of the next. Two up, two down and the stairway up the middle leading to a further curved staircase up to the garret. As the families down here consisted of anything up to thirteen children, the garret was a very necessary part of the dwelling, being large enough to accommodate two double beds – not that many could afford the luxury of beds. The longest row was known as the Twenty Row, for the number of houses it contained. The rest of them, being in close proximity to the fast-flowing river, had been given names like Don View, Little Don Row and Donside. Higher up were the older properties, some of them farmsteads, known as Duncliffe.
Lizzie was always relieved that they lived on the opposite side of the valley which was greener and more fertile. Most of the houses there were no more than thirty years old, and though there were one or two terraces the majority were semi-detached, until Queen Victoria Street wound even higher, leading to where the posh folk lived, in large, detached, gabled properties. Beyond that, the woods and meadows stretched out on to the wild, open Yorkshire moors.
‘See you later,’ Lizzie said as the sisters parted company and made for their separate departments, Ruth to the gitting shop where she would use the gits to fix the ribs together, Lizzie to the Japan shop where she would dip the finished articles into the Japanese lacquer and lay them out to dry ready for the ovens and the hardening.
The girls were both clad in long white pinafores to protect their clothing, and before long Lizzie’s arms would be lacquered as black as the ribs, as far up as her elbows. She didn’t mind the job; what she did mind was the smell of the naphtha used to remove the lacquer which seemed to cling to her body no matter how much she scrubbed herself afterwards. She hoped she could rid herself of the smell tonight – she didn’t want everybody knowing she was an umbrella girl.
By the time Isaac Stanford rose from his bed the fire was glowing brightly, after being urged on by the draw-tin, and the kettle was gurgling merrily on the hob. Isaac and Emily would breakfast together on homemade barm cakes and honey, after which he would enjoy a pipeful of tobacco before leaving to join the railway gang and begin work at eight. Alice could normally be heard pottering about in the bedroom above at about the time Isaac left the house. This morning, however, she was downstairs and pouring a cup of tea before Isaac had finished his smoke.
‘You’re up early,’ Emily said.
‘Aye.’
‘Sit thisen down then, lass, and get thi breakfast,’ said Isaac.
‘I suppose our Lizzie’ll be all worked up about the dance.’
‘Aye, I suppose she will.’ Emily wondered if her eldest daughter wished she was going too. ‘It’s a pity you aren’t going with her, lass.’
‘Nay, I don’t think it’d be in my line. Besides, I doubt if she’d want me watching the goings-on.’
Emily looked puzzled. ‘Goings-on? It’s only a ball, Alice. I’m sure she and Annie would have liked you to join them.’
‘Happen Annie would.’
‘What does tha mean, Alice? Thee and our Lizzie haven’t had words, have yer?’ Isaac frowned.
‘No, it’s just that seeing as she’ll be accompanied by George Crossman, I doubt she’d want me playing chaperon.’
‘She’s going with Annie,’ Emily said. ‘Our Lizzie wouldn’t lie.’
‘Oh, no.’ Alice hoped she was doing the right thing. ‘I didn’t say she wasn’t going with Annie, Annie’s got the tickets, but George’ll be there as well.’
‘Well, perhaps that’s a good thing,’ said Emily, glancing at her husband. ‘He’ll be able to keep an eye on the pair of them.’
Isaac chewed at his pipe and rocked slowly in his wooden chair. ‘George Crossman, you say? Now let’s see, isn’t that Walter’s son? Tha knows, Emily, Walter who married Nellie Sanderson? Didn’t they go live over Warrentickle?’
‘I remember. A lovely lass was Nellie.’
‘Aye, if my memory serves me well they had four, all lads. I can see them now, marching in the Whit Monday procession, as like as four peas in a pod, and just as shining and clean.’
‘She always was spotless, was Nellie. They used to come to chapel regularly before they moved. In fact I’ve seen one of the lads in chapel lately, though I don’t know which one.’
‘That’s George,’ Alice mumbled. ‘On the lookout for our Lizzie, I expect.’
Isaac wrapped his
muffler round his neck and picked up his snap. ‘Aye well, our Lizzie could do a lot worse than keep company with a Crossman. Though I should have a word with her, Emily, if I were thee, make sure she knows right from wrong, if tha knows what I mean.’
‘She’ll be all right. She’s a good lass is our Lizzie, in fact they all are. I reckon we’re fortunate, Isaac.’
‘Aye, well, we’ve done our best. See thee tonight then, lass.’
‘Yes, well, take care with the engines.’
Isaac went out, closing the door behind him.
Emily poured another cup of tea. ‘And what was all that about?’ She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Alice.
‘What? What was all what about?’ Alice sounded innocent enough but the flush of colour gave her away.
‘Perhaps I was wrong, I hope I was, but I had a feeling you were trying to make trouble for our Lizzie.’
‘Nay, Mother, I don’t want to make trouble, I want to keep her out of it.’
‘How? By stopping her going to the ball with George Crossman?’
Alice almost told her mother about Lizzie’s intention to stay out beyond half past nine, but she didn’t like the look on her mother’s face. ‘Well, I just thought our dad should know, that’s all.’
‘Well, so now he knows.’ Emily sighed. ‘Our Lizzie’s growing up. In fact she is grown up, and so are you, Alice. No doubt you’ll be next to find yourself a young man.’ Alice shuffled uncomfortably. ‘And when you do, I trust you’ll know how to conduct yourself just as I trust our Lizzie. I wish you were going with her, lass. You deserve a little fun now and again.’
Alice jumped up and grabbed her coat from the peg behind the door. It was a nice coat, her mother considered, good quality but more suitable for an older woman. Emily sighed. And she was so pretty. Alice had beautiful eyes. Emily watched her put on her hat, grey to match her coat, and pull it down so that her thick dark hair was completely hidden.
‘I’ll be off then, Mother.’ She kissed her mother dutifully on the cheek, but with no sign of affection.
‘Aye, don’t be late, lass.’ Emily knew that Alice would consider it a sin to be even a second late. The girl glanced at the wall clock just as it began to chime the quarter, picked up her gloves and strode purposefully out of the house. Shaking her head sadly, Emily watched her until she disappeared from sight.
‘If only our Alice would let herself go a bit, if only she would laugh, she could be the bonniest of the three,’ she said to herself, but she had a feeling it would never happen.
Alice was sorry now that she had said anything; it had only started her mother on about her needing some fun. She tried to convince herself that she had only mentioned it to protect their Lizzie, but somehow it didn’t ring true. She wondered if she was jealous, as Ruth had suggested. Not that she wanted to go to the dinner dance, but Lizzie’s suddenly acquiring herself a young man had made her think. After all, Alice was the oldest. She flushed at the thought of Joe Jackson. Not that he had paid her any attention; well, no more than as the girl clerk in the outer office. Except that he had offered to escort her home from the works’ Christmas social, and then she had almost snapped the poor man’s head in two. ‘I’m with my sisters.’ Oh, why couldn’t she have smiled and thanked him nicely? The truth was that she hadn’t taken much notice of him until then. The relationship had been entirely that of supervisor and secretary. From that night, however, Alice had seen Joe in an entirely different light, but by then it was too late.
She waited on the pavement for a trap to pass, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves breaking up her thoughts. At this time the upper management were all turning in for work. Those who had come from Sheffield to make their weekly tour of inspection were travelling by carrier cart; others, immaculate in dark suits and bowler hats, were glancing at heavy gold pocket watches as they walked briskly into the office building. In another hour they would probably have both foremen and factory workers quaking in their clogs, as the weekly assessment was made and wages paid out accordingly. One or two would no doubt have been sacked and others set on. Alice would know the names of the unfortunate ones even before they themselves heard about their dismissal, but being the soul of discretion she never discussed her work with anyone. The truth was that Alice Stanford was a lonely young woman who had built a cage round herself, a cage which could have been made of iron and from which she was finding it impossible to escape.
Wormleighton Hall had once belonged to a wealthy family of the same name, but that was before misfortune and financial ruin made it necessary for the place to be sold. Far from being acquired as a family residence, the Hall had been purchased with the intention of turning it into a profitable business. The state rooms and the marble ballroom remained as they had for generations, but the bedrooms had been refurbished, new bathrooms and heating had been installed and extra staff had been employed. Apart from being run as a residential hotel, the Hall was also hired out for banqueting and as a ballroom. Such was its reputation that gentry from as far away as Leeds and Manchester were eager to flaunt their wealth and outdo their friends by holding their family celebrations at Wormleighton Hall.
Tonight would be an exceptional occasion, as for the first time the working people of Cottenly were to be admitted to the splendid and luxurious establishment. The Hall was surrounded by green parkland and it was said that deer could be seen in the forest beyond. Amongst the attractions for house guests were the grouse and pheasant shoots, and in the hunting season the gentry were invited to join the chase in the hills and moorland surrounding the park.
In the valley below, work on a new reservoir had just begun and would benefit not only Cottenly but also towns and villages further afield. The ball tonight was in honour of everyone concerned in the enterprise: engineers, surveyors and lowly labourers. The girls employed at the Hall had been invited to bring friends, mainly to swell the number of female guests for the pleasure of the menfolk. George Crossman was invited to represent the tyre mill in Cottenly, where he was employed. The dam project would bring business to most of the local firms and the tyre mill’s profits were expected to be inflated as the working vehicles needed frequent tyre replacement. The prospect had encouraged the tyre mill to replace its old engine with a new 600-horsepower one. The plant already housed a hammer and a 1250-ton press, and the tyres were rapidly gaining a worldwide reputation. George had managed to acquire an invitation tonight by bribing the fellow concerned with handing out the tickets: he would be walking to work for the next month whilst the bloke concerned rode in style on George’s bicycle. It would be well worth the three-mile trek if George could spend a few hours tonight with Lizzie Stanford. According to George, Lizzie was the most beautiful, adorable creature ever to walk Cottenly, and not many in the town would disagree. For some time past George and his brothers had cried off from attending chapel, but once George had caught a glimpse of Lizzie as she and the rest of the umbrella girls came out of the mill for a breath of fresh air at snap time he had suddenly developed religious mania, and couldn’t wait for Sunday evening to come round. He had even attended Bible class one Wednesday and been sadly disappointed to find only Alice Stanford amongst the students. His sudden resumption of worship was not entirely necessary, as he could have waited outside the chapel for Lizzie, but he was hoping to be noticed by Isaac Stanford, for to get on the good side of Lizzie’s father would be crucial if he meant to ask for Lizzie’s hand in marriage. And since he and Lizzie had kissed, out there in the graveyard, marrying Lizzie Stanford was the most important thought to occupy George Crossman’s mind.
Lizzie felt like a queen in the midnight blue velvet gown. Emily had added a collar and cuffs of fine white lace and taken in the waist to fit Lizzie’s slender frame. Ruth had dressed her hair, which was the colour of sunkissed corn, and she was wearing a neck chain of shimmering silver which Emily had inherited from her mother and also her grandmother’s ring. Jewellery was sparse in the Stanford household, but what items Emily owned were s
hared with her daughters on occasions such as this. Isaac stared, and thought how much Lizzie resembled her mother when he had first courted her.
‘Eeh, lass, thar a sight for sore eyes.’ He wished he could dress his daughters in such finery all the time. As always, he regretted the fact that Emily was willing to accept charity from the posh folk, but it was worth it on this occasion to see the joy spreading forth from his daughter’s countenance.
‘I’ve done our Lizzie’s hair,’ Ruth informed him proudly.
‘Aye, lass, and right pretty it looks too.’ He glanced at Alice, the only one who didn’t look pleased at Lizzie’s appearance. Happen she was wishing she was going with her, though he somehow doubted it.
‘What does tha think, Alice? Doesn’t our Lizzie look grand?’
‘Oh aye, she looks right grand. I just hope she keeps away from those contractors, that’s all.’
‘She must be civil to them, Alice. They’re only human, after all,’ Emily said.
‘You needn’t worry, Mother. I know how to behave, and Annie’s brother is fetching us home at—’ Lizzie almost let the cat out of the bag, ‘when it’s time,’ she corrected herself.
‘You’re going to feel the cold, lass,’ Emily said, looking out at the dark, frosty night.
‘Well, I’m not wearing my coat. It’ll only spoil the look of my dress. Besides, it’s too short, and it’s faded.’
‘You can borrow my shawl,’ Alice suddenly offered. ‘The new one I bought for the social.’ Everyone stared at her in silence. She flushed, knowing they were all taken aback at her show of generosity.
‘Oh, Alice, I couldn’t. It must have cost you the earth … oh, but it is lovely and warm.’
Alice ran upstairs and brought down the beautiful checked shawl. ‘Here, put it round thee.’ She suddenly smiled, and looked beautiful. ‘Who knows? I might want to borrow thi frock one of these days.’
Lizzie threw her arms round her sister. ‘Oh, Alice, you can borrow it any time, I promise.’
The Stanford Lasses Page 2
