The Factory Girl

by Nancy Carson

When that day rolled round, Florrie said she was going to the canteen for her dinner with other girls from the line, because cottage pie was on the menu and she loved cottage pie. So Henzey made her way alone to meet Sarah and the others. When she arrived, Will was eating his sandwiches in his office, reading his newspaper, oblivious to their plot. While they waited, they stood around, talking, laughing with some of the men of that department, highly qualified engineers mostly. Eventually, Will finished eating and Sarah went to his door and asked him to step into the workshop.

  She said, ‘We’ve got something for you, Will.’ From a drawer in a cabinet at her right, she drew out a flat, rectangular parcel and offered it him. ‘Here, it’s from all of us, the men as well. Happy anniversary.’

  He scratched his head self-consciously and took it, smiling that melancholy smile Henzey had succeeded in capturing. ‘Well, thanks. Fancy you lot remembering this anniversary.’ He removed the paper, fearing that a joke of some sort was being perpetrated. But when he saw it was a framed drawing of himself he held it up in front of him and looked at it intently. Then, still smiling, he looked at the girls. ‘It’s fantastic. Even I can see it’s like me. Did that girl from Lighting do it, who did ‘The Bing Boys’?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said. ‘And she’s here.’ She introduced Henzey.

  Will regarded her for a moment. ‘It’s a magnificent drawing, Henzey. I shall always treasure it. It’s quite a talent you have. Thank you for drawing me so accurately. But how did you do it? I obviously didn’t sit for you.’

  Henzey blushed at being spoken to for the first time by this man whom she had secretly, intimately pondered. She hoped he did not have the ability to read her private thoughts, especially as she had thought how nice and kissable his lips were. Being so closely involved with a good-looking male subject sometimes made her feel like that. But this, she presumed, was a married man.

  ‘The girls gave me two photos to work from, but I did come to have a look at you one day.’ Her face reddened more with her confession and she laughed self-consciously. ‘I think I was lucky to be able to draw you so accurately.’

  ‘It strikes me you’re too modest, Miss. It’s more accurate than any photograph. I look at this and think you must have seen into my soul. It’s uncanny. Anyway, I understand they’re putting on an exhibition of your work in the canteen in a couple of weeks.’

  She nodded. ‘Mr Oliver Lucas arranged it through Mr Cherrington in Personnel. All the folk I’ve done portraits for have agreed to let me borrow them for the exhibition. I’ve got some other work, watercolours and things I’ve done at home over the past few years, that I’ll include as well.’

  ‘Then you must also include this.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to if you don’t mind. I think it’s one of my best. Thanks for the offer. Thanks ever so much, Mr Parish.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome. First, though, I’ll have a day or two with it at home – just to admire the quality of your work.’

  She thanked him once more and went on her way. Will Parish watched her go.

  Sarah said, ‘She’s a nice girl, in’t she?’

  ‘Mmm, she’s lovely.’

  That night, at home, Henzey went to her room and looked through her old sketch-books to decide which pieces of work, if any, would be suitable for her exhibition. Among the very old ones were drawings of her father she had done when she was little more than a child. She lingered over them, recalling the happy times she’d spent with him. He would sit for her, holding an expression for ages, till he grew tired and would ask how long she was going to be. Only another minute, she would say, then press on, trying to get this or that right. Although most of these drawings were not technically good, and hence, unsuitable to show in the canteen, they were priceless, because when she looked at them she relived such precious times. There were sketches, too, of all the family. Watercolours of streets on Kates Hill and lots more besides that she could include. There were charcoal drawings, not very good; pen and ink drawings of Jack Harper – Alice could take her pick of those. One of Stanley Dando, her mother’s second cousin – her heart skipped a beat when she saw it, for she had always secretly admired her Uncle Stanley. Then an ideal portrait of Uncle Joe came to light in which his rough and ready, but good as gold character, was evident.

  She found some drawings of Billy Witts, including the one that had been hanging on her bedroom wall and her heart seemed to turn a somersault. But the portrait she had completed of Will Parish was still fresh in her mind and she could vividly remember that look of honesty and that sad, haunting smile of his.

  Then, when she compared this mental image with the sketch of Billy, something really surprised her; she knew she had drawn Billy accurately, but there was no equivalent look of tenderness, of compassion, of openness that she had captured in Will Parish. Rather, the expressions she caught in every picture of Billy suggested guile, conceit, and self-regard, as if he believed the world was interested in looking only at him.

  But only now did she recognise it; only now, when she made this comparison.

  How strange! His true character had been evident all the time in her own drawings. From the start, she had represented him on paper as he really was. Why hadn’t she seen him as he really was when her sub-conscious evidently had? It was there for all to see. It was in the eyes; the eyes, which enable you to see out but allow others to see in, deep into the soul. If only we knew how to interpret what we saw.

  Billy Witts. Him. After nine months, she had more or less got over him. He was a rotter, for sure, and she finally accepted that. She had loved him with all her heart, but it did not hurt anymore and she could laugh again. Yet the affair had left its mark. Now she was wary of becoming involved with any other man, because of her own susceptibility to getting hurt. So it was safer to resist any advances. Even now she recoiled if another man touched her. She failed to realise that interest in a fresh lover would quickly render the previous one irrelevant. The trouble was, she did not want anybody else. She did not need anybody else and besides, it would take an extraordinary man to re-ignite any romantic fervour.

  From all the older work she picked out about twenty pieces that she thought reflected her current ability. The rest would come from the pictures done of people at work; and they were more appropriate since they would be of more interest to her audience. But all these pictures needed mounting in some way. Certainly she could not afford to have them all framed, but some sort of mount for each was vital. It would be tedious doing it, but it ought to be done.

  Having sorted her work to her satisfaction she went downstairs. Jesse was telling Lizzie that he had been to price a van for the business, but there was nothing really suitable so he had decided to buy another horse and float instead. And would she remind Herbert to take the accumulator for the wireless to be charged up? It was too heavy for any of the girls to carry.

  Lizzie said she would. ‘And I’d best go across the road and see how Beccy Crump is. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s broken her arm. That’s the trouble with falling down those steep stairs in those houses. She was in such a lot of pain. It’s really knocked her about. I took her some dinner and a cup of tea earlier, but that new family, the Tomlins, who’ve moved into our old house, have been nowhere near. They’re about as much use as a yard and a half of pump water.’

  ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘No, but I ought to. I’ll send for him tomorrow. I reckon she’ll have to have her arm set in plaster. May’s going round in the morning, but I said I’d go and see to her later.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Henzey offered. ‘About what time, though?’

  ‘No later than ten. The back door’ll be open.’

  Henzey looked at the clock. It was half past nine. ‘I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘I can have a chat with her. There’s no point trying to do anything more with these pictures tonight.’

  Outside, the sky was clear and the bright, three-quarter moon seemed to afford more light than t
he feeble street lamps. As her mother had said, Beccy’s back door was not locked. It seldom was. As Henzey entered in the darkness she heard the cat mewing. She picked her way over to the hearth and felt on the mantelpiece for a box of matches. She lit the gaslight and announced with a shout to Beccy that she was in the house. The cat rubbed itself against her legs, so she squatted down and stroked it, whispering soft words. It purred contentedly. Its bowl, lying on the floor by the fender, was empty. From the pantry at the top of the cellar Henzey took the jug of milk and sniffed it. It was fresh, so she rinsed the bowl out in the brewhouse, returned and filled it with the milk. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I bet you were thirsty with nobody to look after you all day.’ The cat lapped it straight away.

  Henzey lit an oil-lamp and took it upstairs to light her way. Beccy greeted her from her bed when she reached the top of the scrubbed stairs.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodnight and tuck you up, Beccy. How’s your arm?’

  ‘By God, it’s givin’ me some gyp, young Henzey. I’m sure I’n bosted it. ’Ere, look. It’s all swelled up like a great big polony.’

  ‘Ooh, it looks ever so painful. We’ll get the doctor in tomorrow. It’ll need setting.’

  Beccy nodded her consent. ‘I’m clammed to jeth an’ all. Not a thing’s passed me lips since your mother come in earlier an’ brought me a pork sandwich. I thought May would’ve bin round afore now. I could just bost a conga eel an’ a few chips.’

  ‘May’s coming in the morning, Beccy. But I’ll fetch you some fish and chips from Iky’s now, if you like. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea first?’

  ‘Yes, I would, my flower. God bless yer.’

  So Henzey went down again and made them both a cup of tea, boiling the water on a portable gas ring.

  When she returned, Beccy said, ‘Henzey, cost ’elp me get me stays off, my wench? They’m a-diggin’ into me summat vile. After I fell over I dai’ feel like gettin’ ’em off. Me legs was all of a wamble. But I’ll ’ave to get ’em off now afore they squeege the life out o’ me. Trouble is, I cor’ undo ’em with just one ’and.’

  Beccy pushed the bedclothes back and lifted up her night-gown with her good hand. Henzey was amused to see that she was still wearing an enormous pair of thick navy-blue bloomers over her stays, big enough to accommodate herself and her mother. Not without some difficulty and with some hilarity she undressed Beccy and, breathless with laughter, undid her stays and peeled the rigid garment off. She watched the old lady’s belly find its normal roundness like dough rising, stretch marks and all, while Beccy had a good scratch round with her good hand, and blew her cheeks out with relief.

  ‘Look at me, young Henzey, I’m like a little tunky pig,’ Beccy chuckled, as Henzey removed her garters and rolled her stockings down.

  ‘Are you sure you still want the conga eel and chips, then?’

  ‘By God, I do. There’s no point me worryin’ about me figure at my age. Hark, yo’ll find a shillin’ in me puss on the mantel shelf downstairs.’

  ‘I’ll go then and you can finish your tea.’

  So out Henzey went. When Iky Bottlebrush knew the order was for Beccy, typically, he wouldn’t accept any money; he’d heard about her fall and was anxious to know how she was. Ten minutes later, when Henzey unwrapped the conga eel and chips, they smelt divine and she couldn’t resist pinching a few as she passed them to Beccy.

  ‘Best I’n ever ’ad,’ the old lady declared as she finished the last bit. ‘He knows how to fry fish an’ chips, that Iky…Henzey, my wench, if yo’ goo downstairs yo’ll find a bottle o’ stout on the shelf the top o’ the cellar steps. Tek the top off for me, will yer, an’ bring me a glass? It’ll ’elp me sleep.’

  Henzey gladly did as she was asked. She stayed till Beccy had finished the stout and used the jerico. Then she tucked her up in bed, gave her a kiss on the cheek and went back downstairs. She let the cat out, put the light out, and shut the door behind her. Then she walked back to the dairy house. It was nearly half past ten.

  She was just about to open the verandah door to go in when she thought she heard a voice. It sounded like a child whimpering, being hurt. Ramsbottom and Clement were restless in their stables; they were blowing and she could hear them clomping about fretfully on their straw. Henzey stopped and listened. There was the sound again. It was certainly not the horses. It was a girl’s voice, moaning soulfully, coming from the direction of the old brewhouse. Henzey took off her shoes so as not to be heard, and walked silently in stockinged feet up the yard to investigate. After a few steps she stopped. The moonlight presented her with a sight she never expected to see in a thousand years. Jack Harper had his back towards her, his trousers round his ankles. Alice’s bare legs were wrapped about him, her skirt up round her waist, her bare backside cupped in his hands, evidently relishing every moment. She was pressed against the back wall of the brewhouse for support, while he thrust into her like a rampant stallion.

  No wonder the horses were restless.

  Chapter 11

  For days Henzey could not rid herself of the image of Jack Harper and Alice in the moonlight. It was not that she cared for him, but she cared deeply for her younger sister, despite the animosity that had come between them over him. The first opportunity to caution her on her foolishness presented itself the following Saturday. Henzey had been shopping in the town in the afternoon and, just prior to closing time, had gone into George Mason’s to say hello to Clara Maitland and the rest of her old workmates, so as to catch up on gossip. It seemed a good idea to wait for Alice; while they were walking home she could broach the subject. Jack Harper was there to meet her, too, as welcome as a blue-bottle on a pork chop as far as Henzey was concerned, but he soon left to catch his tram. The girls walked without speaking for five minutes, though it seemed like an hour. Till Henzey broke the strained silence.

  ‘Our Alice, there’s something I want to say to you, if you promise you won’t get the wrong idea.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’ Alice swapped the string bag full of groceries she was carrying to her other hand.

  ‘I called to see Beccy Crump the other night, before she had her wrist in plaster. As I came back through the yard I saw you and Jack against the old brewhouse door.’

  ‘You have to say goodnight somewhere.’

  ‘’Course you do. But do you have to say goodnight with his trousers round his ankles and your skirt up round your waist?’

  ‘What are you talkin’ about, Henzey?’

  ‘Oh, spare us the pretence, Alice.’

  ‘You’re jealous, that’s all.’

  Henzey sighed with frustration. ‘Alice, I’m not jealous, I swear. What you do is your own business, but don’t you think you ought to be a bit more careful where you do it? What if Mother had seen you, or Jesse?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have done. We’d have heard ’em.’

  ‘But you didn’t hear me. And you didn’t hear me because you were too engrossed in what you were doing. I heard you grunting and groaning and I thought it was a child or somebody, hurt and in trouble. That’s why I went to see what it was. That’s when I saw you. Why should you hear anybody?’

  Alice shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You’m right. What I do is me own business. An’ next time don’t stand an’ watch. Who d’you think you are? You make me sick lately, just ’cause you used to go out with some flash creep with plenty money. An’ he was only too happy to get rid of you when he knew what you was really like. But you ain’t too proud to watch me an’ Jack, by the sound of it.’

  The reference to Billy jilting her was hurtful but Henzey tried not to let it show. Alice had changed. She was no longer the soft-spoken, shy little girl she had known all her life. Now there seemed to be an unbridgeable gap between them; a gulf too wide to cross. Her usual sullenness apart, she showed no hostility to any other member of the family and she was reasonably affable with the staff of George Mason’s. It had to be because of Jack Harper and what Henzey had meant to him in the past. It
had to be jealousy. There was no other explanation.

  ‘Alice, what’s got into you? Why are you so resentful towards me?’

  ‘You keep pokin’ your nose where it ain’t wanted. Why don’t you mind your own business? Just because you ain’t got nobody now.’

  Henzey’s anger flared. Alice’s arguments were puerile and contemptible.

  ‘I haven’t got anybody because I don’t want anybody. And I’ve got no interest whatsoever in your pathetic Jack Harper. As far as I’m concerned he’s yours and you’re welcome to him. He’s welcome to you, as well, and all your snide remarks. But let me tell you this for your own good, whether you take any notice or not. I know what you’re like. You’ve been nothing but a wanton little trollop ever since I caught you with that George at Andrew Dewsbury’s party two years ago. I was sick with worry for you then, but I don’t give a damn what you do now. But spare a thought for Mother and what she might have to go through. If you’re not careful, you’ll get pregnant. You could even catch something you can’t get rid of. So just be careful, for your own good.’

  Alice looked at her with scorn. ‘Do you think I’m so stupid as to get pregnant? Do you think I don’t know about the clap and the pox? You think you know everythin’, Henzey Kite. But I’ll tell you what – you ain’t got a clue about one thing.’

  ‘Really! So what don’t I know?’

  ‘Oh, just that George wouldn’t have been the first,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘I’m not surprised. You sound as if you’re dying to tell me who was.’

  ‘I am…It was Jack.’ She smiled vindictively. ‘While you were goin’ out with him.’

  Henzey laughed with contempt. Alice was lying, of course, trying to stir up trouble. It was becoming more and more evident that she was capable of such things. But, even if what she said were true, Henzey couldn’t have cared less.

  Not another word passed between them as they walked home, but somehow Henzey’s anger evaporated. Alice was still just a young, impressionable, immature girl, despite her sexual precociousness.