The Stanford Lasses

by Glenice Crossland

  ‘And I love thee, Joe,’ she answered.

  He touched her breast gently and felt the heaviness in his hand and the stiffness of her nipple. He moved his hand downwards and felt the softness of her pubic hair through the flimsy silk of her gown. Gently, he caressed her until he felt the moistness enrich his fingers. Alice was soft now, relaxed and yet alert, eager for the ache in her body to be resolved. She moved her hips upward, pressing herself towards the hand which was giving her such intense pleasure, and, slowly, she moved her own hand down and placed it over Joe’s rigid erection.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Alice muttered and moved her body closer. Joe sensed his wife’s eagerness and slowly entered her. He heard her cry out momentarily and then they were moving as one, slowly at first and then faster, then slowing again and deeper until they reached a mind-shattering climax and she cried out again as pleasure, painful in its intensity, overwhelmed her.

  ‘Are you all right, Alice?’

  ‘Never better, Joe.’ Then for the first time in her life Alice moved from her own side of the bed and snuggled closer to her bedmate.

  Ruth was filled with excitement. Walter was meeting her after work and taking her to the music hall in Sheffield. Walter was always arranging treats and even Mary Hampshire was jealous, but she still insisted she didn’t like Ruth’s young man.

  ‘If he’s so eager to marry you, why isn’t he saving his money for a house?’ She always had to spoil things, Ruth thought.

  ‘Because he likes me to have a good time,’ she retorted, but deep down she knew her friend was right.

  ‘Well, have a good time then.’ Mary smiled, not wanting to be a spoilsport but concerned for her friend.

  Mary wasn’t the only one worried about Ruth. Emily had tried to convince her daughter that she could do better. ‘You’re a lovely lass, Ruth. Why, you could have the pick of all the boys and yet you choose one like Walter Wray.’

  ‘You’re all against him. No wonder he likes a drink – it’s because he’s sensitive to your rejection. Once we’re married he’ll be different, just you see.’

  ‘I hope I never see the day when you marry Walter Wray.’ Emily frowned. She knew Ruth was about to cry again – these conversations always ended with tears – but Emily still hoped to talk her daughter out of the planned wedding.

  Isaac had even gone as far as to forbid Ruth to see the man, but she had refused to eat and changed so much from her usual carefree self that Emily had advised him to unbend a little. By way of compromise he had instead pleaded with his daughter not to rush into marriage and Ruth had agreed. But now another problem had arisen: the longer Walter was being made to wait, the more insistent he was becoming as regards his and Ruth’s making love. When they stood now in the ginnel halfway up the hill to kiss goodnight, it was proving difficult for Ruth to stop his hands from roaming to places they shouldn’t. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the feelings taking place in her body hadn’t made her want him to do things she knew would shame her.

  The music hall proved to be the most exciting entertainment Ruth had ever seen. Walter urged her to join in the singing, and the acts all turned out to be first class. Afterwards, though, he spoiled her whole evening by insisting on their calling at a public house. Luckily they didn’t have time for more than one drink before leaving for the station, for Ruth’s upbringing didn’t allow her to frequent such places as the Black Swan without feeling guilty. Besides, the women slouched at the tables were not the type Ruth wished to be seen in the company of. She had heard of such creatures and was now seeing them at first hand. She found herself wondering if Walter had ever become acquainted with such people and felt slightly sick at the thought of it. She left half the drink he had purchased for her and hurried out as soon as he had finished, but not before she had seen one of the crudely made up women rush over and gulp down her unfinished wine. She shuddered and was relieved to be on her way home. Walter snuggled her towards him and pulled her into the ginnel and Ruth felt a flood of desire wash over her at his closeness. He removed the hatpin and then her brown, feather-trimmed hat so that he could run his fingers through the fair silkiness of her long hair. ‘Oh, Ruth love, I’m telling you I can’t wait much longer. I’m a normal, virile man and enough is enough.’

  Ruth kissed him into silence, which only inflamed him even more. He started to undo the buttons of her fitted jacket, and then the miniature buttons of her white, frilled blouse. ‘No.’ She stilled his hand. ‘I’ve got to go, it’s late.’ Walter pushed her hand away roughly and continued with the buttons. Ruth found her hat in the darkness and disentangled herself from Walter’s grasp. She experienced the urge to assist him and remove the blouse and knew if she didn’t leave him now it would be too late to resist. ‘I’m sorry, Walter, I really am.’

  ‘Aye well, come on then, I’ll take you home, but next time …’ He followed her as she hurried up the hill. ‘How about tomorrow, if the weather holds out, shall we go up the moor?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll take a picnic.’

  ‘Two o’clock, then. Don’t be late.’

  But Ruth didn’t answer. She was hurrying towards the house. Walter Wray kicked a stone and cursed. What was it about the girl? It wasn’t in his nature to become so involved: safety in numbers had always been his motto, until she came along. The trouble was she was so bloody desirable. Of all the girls he had ever known he was willing to marry this one if it was the only way to have her, and it looked as though it was.

  He set off towards the river. There was one thing for sure, he couldn’t wait much longer, so it seemed like he’d better start looking for a house. It wouldn’t be in the same league as the one her sister lived in – she would just have to be thankful for a roof over her head. Besides, she should think herself lucky if she got him. He grinned in the darkness. What was it his father called him? The lousiest bugger ever to walk Cottenly, not fit to wipe the little Stanford lass’s arse. Aye well, maybe he was right. All the same, he would have her. He was determined on that.

  The sun beat down on the dusty lane as Ruth and Walter walked hand in hand up the hill and out towards the open moor. They crossed over a stile and took a short cut over Dolan’s Fields before leaving civilisation behind. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a storm before the day’s out. It’s abnormally hot,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Aye, it’s a scorcher all right. We’ll make for Windy Caves and find some shelter from the sun – we can’t have you burning that peachy, soft skin.’

  Ruth flushed, and he placed his arm round her shoulder and squeezed her upper arm, sending a flood of desire through her veins.

  ‘I know where there’s a house to let.’

  Walter watched Ruth’s reaction to his words and wasn’t disappointed. Her eyes shone as she enquired, ‘Oh, Walter, where?’

  ‘Don’t get excited, it’s not among the posh folk, so don’t go getting big ideas.’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be, but do tell me where, Walter.’

  ‘In Wire Mill Place.’ He watched Ruth’s face fall. ‘Oh, I know it’s not the best of places but home is what you make it, that’s what I always say.’

  The wire mill was situated between the coke ovens at the filthiest end of the works and the tyre mill, and Wire Mill Place was wedged between its stark black walls and the deepest part of the river, where it gushed down the hill before levelling out.

  ‘Oh, Walter, it would be awful living there. It never sees any sunlight and gets all the smoke and fumes from the coke ovens.’

  ‘Oh well, if you’re going to be particular, it looks like we won’t be fixing a wedding after all.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t live there, I was just a little disappointed, that’s all.’

  ‘Aye well, I’m sorry I can’t compete with other members of yer family, but as it’s all I can manage it’s either take what I can offer or start looking for a rich husband.’ He switched on his put-upon look and continued, ‘I don’t blame you if you do. I know I’m not good enough for somebody like you.
I don’t deserve yer.’

  He looked so sorry for himself that Ruth threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘I don’t want a rich husband, I want you, Walter, and I don’t mind where we live as long as I’m with you.’

  Walter placed the picnic basket amongst the heather and pulled Ruth down into the bracken. ‘Right then.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll arrange to pick up the key tomorrow.’ He lifted Ruth’s skirt and trailed his fingers up the length of her stocking, but she stilled his hand before it reached its goal. A curse almost sprang to his lips but he controlled his tongue. He would bide his time. She would soon belong to him and by God he would show her who was boss then and no mistake.

  And all the time Ruth was thinking that he could have afforded somewhere better than Wire Mill Place if only he would keep away from the Rag. But he would change once they were married, she was sure he would. Then they settled down to enjoy their picnic.

  It was still stiflingly hot and Lizzie knew her confinement was imminent. She went to the door where George was sitting on the step bouncing little Harry between his legs and touched her husband on the shoulder,

  ‘George, can you fetch Old Mother Buttercup?’

  ‘Why, lass, has yer time come?’ He jumped to his feet, lifting the infant as he did so, and rushed off down the street without waiting for her reply. George had never known Old Mother’s real name; come to that neither did anybody else as far as he knew. She lived in a two up, two down cottage in a patch of garden which was once river bank, until she had adopted it, bit by bit, over the years. Now it contained almost every herb and flower under the sun, each of which was a cure for something or other, according to Old Mother. At present the garden was a blaze of colour, with dazzling golden buttercups and pale primroses vying with tall, fragrant lilies and white lilac for the attention of large fluffy bumblebees and pale, fragile butterflies. George trod his way through a bed of lavender and feverfew and knocked at the battered old door.

  ‘Are you in, Old Mother?’ he called and shifted Harry on to his other arm.

  ‘Aah, lad, I’m in. Is it thee, George?’

  ‘Yes. Lizzie says can you come?’

  ‘Aah, lad, I were expectin’ you some time today. I could tell by’t way she were bottoming’t house yesterday that her time was near. You be away back and I’ll not be many minutes before I’m following on.’

  George looked anxious and would have liked to tell her to get a move on, but instead he rushed across the garden and back to Lizzie.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He stood in the doorway unable to believe his eyes.

  ‘Just cleaning the window bottom. I can’t keep pace with the flies what with the heat.’

  ‘Lizzie, you should be in bed. I’ll clean the windows if it’s so important.’

  ‘Nay, George, Old Mother’ll not approve of me lying there in idleness. You know how she had me traipsing round the bedroom on my hands and knees last time.’

  ‘But, Lizzie, you’re sweating like a bull. You should be resting, saving yer strength for later.’

  ‘Of course I’m sweating.’ Lizzie cringed as another pain clutched her body. ‘It must be eighty outside, at least.’

  Old Mother hobbled into the room on her bent, rheumaticky legs. ‘Well, lass, are yer nearly ready? Have you had a show?’ She looked at George standing by the door. ‘Can you make yourself useful, George lad, get some water boiling on’t fire or summat?’

  ‘Boiler’s full. I saw to that just in case. It’ll be boiling by now, what with fire roaring away, and on a day like this as well.’

  ‘Open’t window then, lad, and let some air in, not that there’s much to let in today. It’s fair stifling; a storm brewing if you axe me. Come on then, lass, upstairs with yer and let’s have a look at yer bits and pieces.’ George blushed and was relieved when the two made their way up the narrow, steep stairs.

  In less than an hour George heard the cry of a new baby and rushed fit to break his neck up the stairs. Lizzie was sitting up in bed, her face as red as the baby Old Mother was sponging down in a blue and white flowered wash bowl, but much more beautiful, George thought. He never had considered newborn babies to be very appealing; more like skinned rabbits, he considered. ‘Are you all right, Lizzie?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Fine, George. Oh, and isn’t she beautiful?’

  ‘She? A girl then.’ He grinned and kissed Lizzie tenderly.

  ‘Aah, a girl, and she’s a right bonny little blighter at that.’ Old Mother handed the baby to George, so tightly wrapped he wondered how she could breathe.

  ‘And Lizzie, is she all right?’ he asked the old woman. Old Mother was hobbling towards the stairs and George followed her closely.

  ‘What? Lizzie all right? Made for child-bearing if you axe me. Just as easy as laying an egg. Course, the raspberry leaf tea I gave her accounts for that. There’ll be another on the way in six months, and another three or four after that.’

  George looked stunned. Old Mother Buttercup was well known for her predictions and more often than not she was right. Old Mother’s face had clouded. ‘What’s wrong, Old Mother?’ George enquired, but the look had disappeared, and she grinned a wide, toothless grin.

  ‘Naught wrong, lad, just the hotness making me thirsty.’ Her eyes were roaming to the sideboard on which a decanter of elderberry wine was displayed.

  George grinned. ‘Aye well, I dare say we could all do with a drink, and I don’t mean water, we have a birth to celebrate.’ He poured the rich dark liquid into two glasses. Old Mother took a sip and smacked her lips together.

  ‘A drop of the good stuff, this. Remind me next time you come to my place and I’ll give you a sup of my elderflower. Naught can beat that if you axe me.’ She finished her wine and wrapped her shawl round her shoulders. George marvelled at how quickly she had cooled down, and how she could bear the layer upon layer of thick, dark garments. ‘I’ll be away, then.’ She hobbled to the door, pausing to stroke Harry’s little fair head. ‘Sleeping like Rip Van Winkle. Oh for the sleep of an innocent babbie, no regrets of the past to bother about and no worriting about what the future’s going to bring. Best time of our life if you axe me, and not a one of us can remember it.’ She grinned her cavernous grin and hobbled out into the hot sunshine.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ George called after her.

  ‘Not a dicky bird, lad, but you could name the new babby after me. I should like that, having no kith or kin of my own.’

  George was stunned. ‘But I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Olive.’ Old Mother paused. ‘She’ll be a dark-haired beauty, that one.’ She laughed. ‘Not like Old Mother, you’ll be thinking, eh? Aye, but I was once, many moons ago, a right beauty. Aye, Olive’ll suit her, just you see.’

  George didn’t know what Lizzie would say about that. He took the stairs two at a time. ‘Lizzie, are you awake, love?’

  ‘Oh, yes, George. I want to see little Harry’s face when he’s introduced to his sister.’

  ‘Lizzie, what do you think about Olive for a name?’

  ‘Olive! Well, it isn’t what I would have chosen. I thought about Annie, after Annie Hampshire.’

  ‘It’s Old Mother’s name. She wants us to call our daughter after her.’

  Lizzie looked down at the baby. ‘Olive! well I don’t see why not, if it makes an old woman happy. Besides, we might need her assistance again sometime, we never know.’

  ‘At least another three or four times, according to Old Mother.’

  Lizzie’s mouth fell open, then she burst into laughter. ‘George Crossman, I think you’re making that up.’

  ‘No, Lizzie, it’s the truth. That’s what Old Mother said.’

  ‘Then we’d better have separate beds,’ she said, but there was laughter behind her words. The passion Isaac had seen between the two was still there, as strong as ever. If ever a marriage had been made to measure it was this one.

  ‘If that’s what you want, Lizzie,’ George muttered.

  �
��Don’t you dare even think about it,’ Lizzie warned. ‘Now fetch our Harry up to see his sister, and then come and lie beside me for a while, before you go break the news to her grandparents.’ The thought of George in a separate bed was unthinkable. Besides, Lizzie didn’t mind having babies, so long as she could feed and clothe them, and bring them up in a house of love. No, she didn’t mind at all … but half a dozen? She wasn’t sure about that.

  Ruth hadn’t mentioned to anyone about going to look at a house. She knew there would only be another argument and she hated unpleasantness. Nevertheless, if it came to siding with one or the other, Walter would have to come before family.

  Walter unlocked the door with the huge rusty key and then the stench met them, almost overwhelming Ruth with nausea. She recognised the stink of uncleaned drains and urine, but there were other sweet, sickly smells she had never before encountered. The bare flagged floor was coated with grease and mouse droppings, and the previous tenants had left a large, square table in the centre of the room, on which huge black blowflies had become glued to the spills and stickiness of dried-on food. The unplastered walls had at one time been lime-washed but it had peeled off with the damp and the bricks were fluffy with mould and dry not.

  ‘Oh, Walter, we can’t possibly live here.’ Ruth was close to tears.

  ‘It’ll be all right once it’s cleaned.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t know where to start. Look at the fireplace, it’s red with rust.’ She walked to the slimy stone sink and examined the set pot in the corner. ‘It stinks like old cabbage water, and look at that! It’s disgusting.’ That was an old iron saucepan which still contained the remains of some ancient stew, which had congealed into green mould. Ruth suddenly burst into tears. ‘I’ll never get the place clean. It isn’t fit for pigs.’

  ‘My mother’ll help, and our Mable,’ Walter volunteered. Ruth knew poor, frail little Mrs Wray would help. She was kindness itself to Ruth, and was relieved that her son had found himself a lovely girl after all his philanderings. Mr Wray on the other hand had already warned Ruth Stanford to have nothing whatsoever to do with his son.