The Factory Girl

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Good job, an’ all,’ Phoebe remarked. ‘We want nothin’ to do with the likes o’ them.’

  Ned leaned across the aisle of the coach to Canon Gittins. ‘Another beer, Canon?’

  The Canon declined.

  ‘…But you’re right, it is a worry,’ Will went on. ‘Remember last April, how the Austrians made Dollfuss a fascist dictator?’

  ‘But what is Fascism, Will?’ Henzey asked. ‘What does it mean?’

  Canon Gittins heard her question and leaned towards her. ‘It’s a philosophy that advocates government by an extreme right dictatorship, Mrs Parish. Sadly, it holds belligerent nationalism as one of its ideologies.’

  Ned turned round to Henzey. He said, ‘It ain’t so much worryin’ as frightenin’, I reckon. If you’m again’ ’em they just bump you off. They point a gun at you and, bang, you’re flippin’ dead, mate! He’s an evil swine, that Hitler, an’ no doubt. I’d love to meet him in our entry one dark night if I was carryin’ three foot o’ lead pipin’. Did yer know as he’s ordered all folk sufferin’ from any physical deformity to be sterilised?’

  ‘Cor! You’d be done straight away with that big fat belly o’ your’n, then, Ned,’ Phoebe said, making Henzey chuckle. ‘Mind yer, it must be terrible for all them poor Jews. Knockin’ ’em about scandalous, they am, them brown-shirts. Even women and babs. An’ Jesus was a Jew, wan’t ’e?’

  Canon Gittins nodded his head sagely. ‘It’s tragic that the Nazis continue to blame the Jews for Jesus’s death two thousand years after the event. It’s ridiculous. Significant, too, that Hitler’s quit the League of Nations. He’ll do just as he likes – internationally.’ He shook his head. ‘Could be very dangerous.’

  ‘And look at that Oswald Mosley,’ Henzey said. ‘He’s another, isn’t he, except he’s English?…Oh, I don’t want to think about it.’

  ‘Well, somebody has to think about it, my love,’ Will said. ‘Fortunately, it seems the government has finally realised that Germany’s a potential threat yet again – and just for a change they’re talking of spending money to boost the armed forces. But I wonder if they’ve left it too late.’

  ‘Nobody wants war again,’ Canon Gittins said, ‘but we must be ready to defend ourselves if it comes. The Germans have no reason to fight us now, but we all abhor what they’re doing in their own country. Just think what they’d do to us if they could invade us – or any other country for that matter. We must have a deterrent.’

  ‘True,’ Will said. ‘And in any case, increased spending on arms will help to get more people back to work. Thankfully, the numbers unemployed are on the decline already, if we’re to believe the figures they publish.’

  ‘Do you have plenty of work on at Lucas’s now, Will?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Canon. Plenty. We’re taking on more people again.’

  ‘Well that’s certainly good news. And shall you continue to work, Mrs Parish?’

  ‘Oh, I reckon I shall be there forever,’ she smiled, and looked at Will, who was taking a swig from his bottle of beer.

  ‘Be at work forever?’ Phoebe exclaimed over the din. ‘I don’t know about work, young Henzey. It’s time yer started a family. How long yer bin married now?’

  ‘Two years last April.’

  ‘There y’are then.’

  Will laughed aloud. ‘Make your mind up, Phoebe. Two minutes ago you were wondering whether it’s worth bringing kids into the world.’

  ‘Yes, I know I said that, Will. But all the same, you still have to have kids, don’t yer? If yer dint have kids the human race would perish, wun’t it? Then where would we be?’

  ‘Well I’m inclined to agree with your first comment, Phoebe,’ Will said, and took another slurp from his bottle of beer. ‘I think there’s too much trouble afoot to think about having children. Besides, in another year or so, at the rate we’re going, Henzey and me should be able to buy a new, modern house in some leafy suburb. Semi-detached.’

  ‘We already live in a semi-detached, Will.’

  ‘No, it’s the end house of a terrace, Henzey.’

  ‘So it’s semi-detached.’

  ‘Henzey, it’s not quite the same thing. We’ve already discussed this.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve discussed it, Will,’ Henzey said, ‘but, as I recall, we reached no decision.’

  ‘Forgive us washing our dirty linen in public, Phoebe,’ Will said, sounding irritated by Henzey’s disregard.

  Phoebe glanced apprehensively at Canon Gittins.

  ‘You see, Phoebe, I’d rather have a baby,’ Henzey explained. ‘I’m quite content to stay where we are in Daisy Road and start a family. I don’t see any sense in moving. Doing that would only delay starting a family anyway. Besides, it’s not every house in Birmingham that overlooks a lake.’

  ‘Reservoir,’ Will interrupted.

  ‘Lake…It’s nice there, Phoebe. It’s peaceful and it’s tranquil. We’ve got nice neighbours. It’s an ideal place to raise a family.’

  ‘Quite right, young Henzey,’ Phoebe concurred, glancing at the clergyman again, then looking intently at Will. ‘Yer see, Will? Your wife wants a bab. It’s on’y natural as a young married woman should want a bab. Most natural thing in the world, a bab. Don’t you agree, Vicar?’

  Later, in their bedroom, Henzey and Will discussed the day, recounting some of the amusing things that had happened. They agreed that the trip had been worthwhile. Will felt an affinity for those kids who had nothing. Because their families were so poor they never did anything that might give them even a hint that the world was vastly bigger than Birmingham.

  ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ he said philosophically, pulling his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers. ‘Years ago, I mean.’

  Henzey was sitting at her dressing table wearing just her knickers, applying Pond’s cleansing cream to her face. ‘Perhaps we should do it again next year. To see the joy on the faces of those kids was worth the effort of fixing it all up, don’t you think?’

  He smiled and unfastened his trousers, allowing them to fall around his legs. He kicked them off deftly and picked them up by the turn-ups. ‘Henzey…I know we haven’t really talked about it for a long time, till this evening on the coach…’ He paused, turning to grab a hanger.

  ‘Talked about what?’

  ‘Oh…kids…You know…Starting a family and all that…’

  She stopped what she was doing and looked at him. ‘And whose fault’s that? You never seem to want to talk about it. Whenever I mention anything that might suggest to you that I want to talk about it, you change the subject or clam up altogether.’

  ‘What I was going to say is this,’ he went on, ignoring her complaint, ‘have you considered us fostering a child? When we’re ready, that is?’

  ‘No,’ she answered decisively, and returned to her cleansing, deeply hurt.

  He hung his trousers in his wardrobe, then took off his socks. After a minute he said, ‘It would be an answer, you know…to both our…problems.’

  ‘Problems? What problems? I haven’t got any problems. I just want my own child, not some ready made one that’s had the misfortune to be born to the wrong mother.’

  ‘But you know my problem…my phobia.’

  ‘Oh, I understand your fears about me having to go through childbirth, Will, but I don’t accept them any longer. I can’t. You’ll have to get over it, for your own peace of mind. It’s not only totally irrational but it’s not fair either. I want children, regardless of your phobia. Most women want children, but I want children of my own first and foremost.’ She paused for a few seconds, returning momentarily to her face-cleansing. ‘Oh, Will, I don’t mean to be unkind or sound uncharitable, but I’m a healthy girl. I’m well capable of bearing children. There’s no history of death during childbirth on either side of my family. And you’ve already proved that you can father a child. Why should we saddle ourselves with somebody else’s mistake?’

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’
he said, feeling peeved. ‘It was just a thought. I was adopted as a child, remember. I thought it might be appropriate for us to help some other poor little devil.’

  She stood up and walked over to him, sorry that she had upset him. He was standing naked now. She put her arms around his waist and felt his lean, supple body, hard against the more yielding firmness of her own skin. He took her in his arms and his caressing hands explored her silken shoulders, savouring her skin while she lay her head on his chest. His hands followed the contours of her body down to her slender waist, taking in the small of her back, then down, down, under the waistband of her knickers to the firm flesh of her bottom. He felt a stirring within him at the feel of her warm, smooth buttocks beneath his fingers. With a tentative smile she looked up at him and his lips came down on hers. As she pressed her breasts gently against his chest, she felt him harden against her belly.

  ‘We could make love without a French letter for once,’ she suggested, hopefully. ‘It’s safe enough, this time of the month.’

  ‘A French letter should be used at every conceivable opportunity.’ He sounded very serious.

  She looked up and, seeing humour in his eyes, smiled. ‘Oh, very funny. Now you’re mocking me.’

  ‘ ’Course I’m not. There’s still a risk.’

  ‘Hardly at all. Even so – don’t you think knowing there’s a risk might make it all the more exciting?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Is it not exciting enough for you now?’

  She kissed him again and they slumped backwards onto the bed. As he teased a nipple with his tongue, his fingers revelled in the smoothness of her skin…

  But he felt under pressure to make love without protection. He wanted her more than anything in the world; yearned to feel himself sliding inside her; longed to enjoy her eager response. But he loved her far too much to risk losing her. Losing her was unthinkable. So, unspeaking, he broke off their embrace to reach for a condom from the drawer in his bedside table.

  Henzey sighed. Yet again she grieved, silently submissive, for her only hope was that this condom would be defective.

  Chapter 16

  The company Neville Worthington owned and ran was establishing itself at last as a manufacturer of reliable, light commercial vehicles. During the twenties, they had designed and put into production a three wheeled van, powered by a small twin-cylinder air-cooled engine. The revenue it generated funded the development of another, bigger van which, thankfully, was making greater profits. The family firm was founded in 1851, the year of the Great Exhibition, as The Worthington Steam Engine Company. So entrenched were they in steam in those days that when the time came for him to marry, a bride was sought from a steam family for Neville’s father. Neville’s mother, Magdalen, was a descendant of the famous Matthew Boulton who, in 1762, opened the exemplary Soho Works near Hockley Brook where James Watt developed the newly-invented steam engine for commercial use. The Black Country had been a lucrative catchment area for the Worthingtons’ engines, used in collieries for pumping away water, and for providing traction for the cages that took men down to their work levels and brought them safely back up at the end of their shifts. They were used to generate the raw motive power for batteries of forging hammers, to blow blast furnaces and to turn the lathes, grinders and drilling machines from which all sorts of precision pieces were contrived. But that was all in the past. Collieries now were closing down at an alarming rate, had been for years and, in the enterprises that still thrived, electricity was relentlessly replacing steam.

  With their engineering expertise in reciprocating engines, it seemed a logical progression to opt for manufacture of internal combustion engines, thus exploiting the engineering facilities they already enjoyed in their iron foundry, their fabrication and machine shops. Neville had, wisely, he believed, avoided the more capricious motor-car market with its airy-fairy whims and fashions; and the number of firms making motor-cars that had gone out of business in the last ten years seemed to substantiate his judgement. Commercial vehicles were more down to earth, more basic – not unlike himself – and enjoyed a more stable market.

  Worthington Commercials had recently won a government contract to develop and manufacture two types of vehicles for the armed forces. Both were general purpose vehicles for carrying personnel and goods, one, little larger than a motor car, the other more akin to a lorry. This requirement had been spurred by the growing threat to peace and stability from the excesses of the Nazi party in Germany and the political demands they were making on their neighbours. Germany was defiantly flouting the limitations set on the size of its armed forces by the Treaty of Versailles; and subsequent condemnation by The League of Nations only succeeded in precipitating Hitler into a tantrum. Britain must be ready to face any threat. New aircraft, bombers and fighters, were on the drawing board; new battleships; new tanks. It was obvious that new types of vehicles would also be needed to service these with men and supplies.

  Neville insisted on undertaking most of the important aspects of business himself, even down to negotiating with suppliers on details of design, pricing and scheduling of deliveries. There was not so much as one nut or bolt on any vehicle that his factory produced, that he had not been comprehensively associated with at some point in its evolution, though he employed many people to whom he might entrust such responsibilities. It was this meticulous care and a reluctance to delegate that took him to Lucas’s Great King Street factory for the first time in May 1935. There were many people to see. He had to discuss the design and specification of starting, ignition and lighting equipment, their costs and lead times, from placing orders to receiving finished goods.

  Will Parish was sitting in his office poring over some drawings just sent to him from the Drawing Office. A memorandum accompanied them, suggesting he study them prior to imminent negotiations with the customer. One was for a starter motor, one a dynamo, another for a distributor, a couple for lighting, and others besides.

  It was going to be another unseasonably warm day for early May. He could feel it already. Close; humid; uncomfortable. He loosened his tie and undid the collar-stud at his throat, looking again at the design for the starter motor. This was his forte; electric motors. His hand went to his chin and he looked at the drawing thoughtfully. The armature looked familiar – a Lucas design – as were the bearings and the brushes; but the housing he hadn’t seen before. He shifted it out of the way and perused another sheet containing details of the dynamo. Again, the various component parts he was acquainted with; but this, too, was a new housing. There must be casting drawings here. He thumbed through the sheaf.

  Will chanced to look up. Two men were approaching. One of them, Jack Heggety, a design engineer from the Drawing Office, he knew. The other, a taller, bearded man, he had not seen before. He was poring over the drawings again, when there was a knock at his open door.

  ‘Morning, Will,’ Jack Heggety greeted. ‘I’ve brought along Neville Worthington to meet you. Mr Worthington…Will Parish…’

  Will looked at Neville Worthington and smiled affably. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Worthington.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Will, you should have received a sheaf of drawings by now…’

  ‘These, you mean, Jack? They arrived on my desk a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Mr Worthington would like to go over a few things with you, Will. Discuss the suitability of the windings, materials, and so forth, since you’re the chap who’ll have to see they’re right.’

  Will looked out of the window and beckoned Sidney Joel, one of his team, to join the discussion. ‘Sidney has a good eye for this sort of thing. I’ve hardly had a chance yet to see what’s what, but my initial impression is that they’re heavy duty applications. Some sort of commercial vehicle?’

  Neville studied Will’s eyes. ‘A bit more than that actually. They’re for two new general purpose vehicles for the armed forces. Part of the re-armament programme the government’s at last seen fit to implement. We’ve won a contract to develop and to man
ufacture. Prototypes, at any rate.’

  Sidney Joel tapped on the door and hovered. Will called him in, introduced him and explained what they knew so far about this new project.

  Neville added, ‘Reliability and durability are the things I’m most concerned with, Will…do you mind if I call you Will?’ Will said he didn’t mind. ‘Good. Call me Neville. Could we just flip through the drawings so I can get your initial reaction, do you think?’

  Will spread the drawings about and the other three stood looking at them pensively, waiting for his comments. ‘Well, here, on this starter motor, the electrics will be fine. They’re tried and tested. But if we have to think in terms of war – shell damage, shocks from explosions and such, then I think you’d be better advised to design in greater impact resistance in the casing. Same on the dynamo.’

  ‘Make them thicker, you mean?’ Neville asked.

  ‘Well yes. There’ll be a penalty in increased weight, but I would’ve thought that hardly an impediment in a vehicle of this type. The point is, the thicker the section, the higher grade material we could get them cast in. And because a higher grade would have greater tensile strength, we would get a two-fold advantage.’

  ‘All of which eats up time, Will. Actually, my own foundry could cast these. We have to have a prototype vehicle for the Ministry in little more than six months, and we have many other suppliers and components to worry about.’

  ‘Well, we can soon knock up some new drawings, Neville,’ Jack assured. ‘That’s not a problem. But what about development, Will? How long do you need on all this?’

  Will regarded Neville. ‘This is a special application and there are many things to consider. In the light of what we’ve been saying maybe we should consider uprating the electrics. That means that Jack and his design team will have to reconsider bearings and lubrication, wiring, insulation material and so on. In this department, Neville, we analyse system behaviour. To do that we usually have to resort to experimental methods and they take time, too.’