by Nancy Carson
‘Are we talking about a virtual re-design?’
‘Certainly some modifications,’ Jack Heggety remarked.
Neville rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Look, chaps. These trucks are going to get the absolute dickens of a bashing if ever there’s a war. I’d like to think they’re not going to break down because we weren’t thorough enough at the design stage.’
‘We can get onto uprating straight away, Neville. But it’s only fair to warn you that there’s going to be a lot of overtime worked in this department to get everything ready if it’s needed that soon. That’s going to cost money…’
‘It’s top priority,’ Neville stressed. ‘Never mind overtime. I’m not certain mere overtime’s enough. Can you not organise a two or three shift system in this department to speed things up even more?’
Will and Jack looked at each other, and the latter, feeling the heat, wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘That’s not a decision we can make here, Neville,’ Will answered.
‘Then let’s talk to the Board. I was assured of their full co-operation.’
‘If they promised it, you’ll get it’
Later that day Neville Worthington drove to his home, Wessex House, situated on Hagley Road in Edgbaston amidst other large, prestigious houses belonging to the industrial upper classes and professional folk. As he travelled from his office in Washwood Heath he pondered his meeting earlier in the day at Lucas Electrical. The manager of the Product Development department was bothering him.
‘You seem distant, Neville,’ his wife, Eunice, remarked over the dinner table. ‘Has it been such a harrowing day?’
‘It’s been a damned warm one,’ Neville replied. He pushed his plate out of the way and ran his forefinger around the inside of his stiff collar to emphasise his statement. ‘I can’t ever remember a May being so warm. It’s more like July.’
‘Is that why you are so pensive?’
‘Pensive? No, sorry. I didn’t realise I seemed pensive. Actually, I was pondering a chap I met today, that’s all. Can’t even remember his name right now. It’s just that I thought I knew him from somewhere. I was trying to place him.’
‘Masonic lodge, maybe?’
Neville shook his head. ‘No. I recall his handshake.’
‘The golf club, perhaps? Some function that you’ve attended.’
‘Mmm…Maybe some golf club or other. Maybe he was at my school…maybe he was in the Boy Scouts…Oxford, even. Oh, but all that was years ago. Frustrating, really,’ he mused. ‘Maybe we have played golf together at some time. I was so sure I knew him from somewhere…Not that it matters.’
Earlier that same evening, Henzey and Will Parish were strolling around Rotton Park Reservoir arm in arm. The heat of the day had thankfully subsided and now there was a pleasant, faint breeze bringing welcome freshness to the air, gently stirring the trees. The sky was cloudless and the low sun, ahead of them, was yellowing in preparation for a colourful bedtime. A duck and a drake led a flotilla of fluffy offspring sedately away from the bank where they walked. They stopped to watch, amused and impressed.
‘They remind me of when I was a little lad,’ Will said. ‘Mother took me to Great Bridge market once. I was seven or eight at the time, I reckon. It was getting late and the traders were packing up ready to go home. We came to a stall where a chap was selling day-old chicks. He looked down at me and said in broad Black Country, “I’ve got just six left, young mon. Gi’ me a tanner an’ yo’ can ’ave ’em. Otherwise I’ll put me foot on the little buggers an’ squash ’em. I want to goo ’um.” Well, I looked at the chicks. They were all yellow and fluffy and I couldn’t bear the thought of them coming to such a sticky end, so I looked pleadingly up at Mother. Anyway she took pity on me and gave the man sixpence. As he handed me the box with them in she said, “I expect they’ll all be dead by mornin’.” Anyway, we got them home, and I put a pair of Mother’s old flannel drawers in the box with them to keep them warm, and gave them some warm milk. I sat up with them till God knows what time, thinking how terrible it would have been if that man had trodden on the poor creatures.’
‘And did you rear them?’ Henzey asked.
‘Just one. Four died and the cat got the fifth. The one that survived we called Lady Astor. Our Sophie called her Foul Fowl. For some reason the hen disliked her. Every time the poor girl came home – she’d be about eighteen then, I suppose – the thing would fly at her. We had to leave a broom at the top of the entry so she could shoo Lady Astor away with it. Poor Sophie was terrified.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘What, the broom?’
She laughed. ‘Of course the broom. You don’t think I’m interested in the chicken?’
He laughed too, at her well-meant sarcasm. ‘Well, we weren’t very well off, Henzey. We had to eat it.’
‘We’re still talking about the broom?’
‘Of course the broom,’ he mimicked. ‘You don’t think we’d eat a chicken for Christmas dinner do you?’
When they had stopped laughing, she said, ‘Fancy eating Lady Astor! I hope you didn’t enjoy her.’
‘Sophie relished what she had.’
The ducks had swum towards the centre of the lake so Will and Henzey walked on. A clamour of magpies, looking for trouble, flapped threateningly around a pair of fat wood-pigeons. Will looked at Henzey. The low, yellowing sun lent a golden, tanned look to her face and neck, but her eyes still radiated a rich blueness. He thought how beautiful she looked. Fleetingly, their eyes met and she caught something of what he was thinking from his expression.
She turned her look away from him and tried to divert him. ‘It’s lovely now, isn’t it? A lovely time for a stroll.’
‘Perfect.’ He kicked a stone from the path and it plopped into the water. ‘We should make the most of it.’ There seemed to be something ominous in the way he said it.
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’
‘Well, for this summer anyway. There’s a bit of a panic on at work. Some new stuff for the Ministry of Defence. It’s all got to be tested, durability trials run. When all that’s finished, modifications are sure to be needed. That’ll mean more testing. Some shift work’s on the cards. You don’t mind do you?’
‘For better, for worse…When’s it due to start?’
‘A couple of weeks, I reckon. There’s nothing we can do till we’ve got some hardware to test. It’s all top priority stuff. Army vehicles. It seems the government’s re-arming at last. Worthington Commercials have won the contract to develop and manufacture them. They’re only in Washwood Heath.’
‘Worthington Commercials? That name rings a bell. Don’t they make little three-wheel vans? I could have sworn I’d seen one recently.’
‘They do. Fancy you noticing a thing like that.’
‘Well, it’s not so surprising is it, since I work in the motor industry?’ she said, feigning arrogance. ‘It’s a professional interest I take.’
He laughed. She never failed to amuse him with her own self-mockery. ‘How could I ever forget? Every time we see a Morris Oxford or a Wolseley nowadays, you point to the headlamps, jump up and down and say, “Look! One of mine! One of mine!”.’
‘Well, I can’t help it. I get so involved in my work. You should be pleased I’m such a conscientious worker. I contribute a lot to road safety, you know. Had you thought about that?’ She stuck her tongue out at him playfully and they walked on a few yards further, Will still laughing.
‘Anyway, me and Neville Worthington, the chap who owns the company, were discussing the designs,’ he said at last.
‘Neville Worthington?’
‘Yes, the chap who owns this Worthington Commercials firm…Strange…He looked ever so familiar. I swear I’ve met him before but I can’t think where.’
‘Yes, his name does sound familiar.’
They walked on a while without speaking. It suddenly registered with Henzey that she had met Neville Worthington; he was the intrig
uing man who, years ago, had said some outrageous things to her that made her laugh when she should really have been appalled.
By now they were at the opposite side of the reservoir to their home. Henzey said, ‘It’s just come back to me, Will. I know why that Neville Worthington’s name is familiar. I met him once…years ago…with Billy Witts. We all had dinner together one night at that posh hotel on Colmore Row. He seemed such a nice chap…I remember, I liked him. I felt a bit sorry for him, actually. I don’t think he got on too well with his wife…Actually, I think he fancied me, you know…Has he still got that too awful beard?’
‘Yes, he’s got a big bushy beard…Fancied you, did he?’
‘I think he did…Oh, I remember what he said…He said he was disenchanted with married life.’ She reminded herself of the other thing he’d said; that he was looking for a lover, though she didn’t mention that to Will. She wondered if Neville ever found one.
Alice Harper was sitting in the parlour of the tiny terraced house that she and Jack now rented in Nith Place at Shaver’s End, on the elevated west side of Dudley. The house, a modest two-up-one-down affair, was not unlike the one the Kites had occupied in Cromwell Street when she was a child, except that it was smaller, and the brewhouse and the privy were shared by three other houses on the yard. The couple had moved out of the dairy house six months after Henzey and Will were married.
While she sat, Alice mended a pair of trousers for Edward, more hand-me-downs from Richard, her little half-brother. She contemplated Jack’s whereabouts that night, for he had taken to going out most nights on the second-hand motorcycle he’d bought some weeks earlier. She looked at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece over the blackleaded grate. It said ten past eleven. Edward had been in bed three hours and was sleeping soundly in the tiny back bedroom. She sighed, put down her mending and got up. There was no sense in waiting up any longer for Jack and, in any case, he was no company when he was home. So she lit the oil lamp to light her way across the back yard to the privy, before she retired to bed.
She did what she had to do hurriedly, for she thought she saw a rat scuffle under the privy door in the shadows, and there were plenty of rats about. She grabbed the oil lamp from its hook and opened the door, glad to be outside in the fresh air again, when she heard the heavy throb of Jack’s AJS motorcycle. The din, as he rode it through the entry and into the yard, created Bedlam. The overspill from the headlight fanned out in rays into the inky sky, throwing the brewhouse and its leaning chimney, which were between her and him, into stark silhouette.
As she turned the corner by the brewhouse, she saw Jack dismount and lean the machine against the wall of the house. The glow of the oil lamp coming towards him drew his attention, but he did not acknowledge Alice. He thrust open the back door and went in. Edward was crying.
‘Go and shut ’im up,’ Jack demanded.
Alice followed him in and closed the door behind her. ‘It’s your row what’s woke him, the poor little soul,’ she said indignantly. ‘Why can’t you turn the engine off in the street and shove your damned motorbike quietly up the entry, like any normal person would?’
‘ ’Cause I’d rather ride it up, that’s why. It’s too ’eavy to push.’
‘I suppose you’ve gone an’ woke all the neighbours as well, an’ you know old Mister Anslow’s poorly.’
He doffed his jacket and, when he’d hung it on the hook at the back of the door, he took himself into the parlour and sat down on the second-hand couch they’d been given. ‘Bring me a bottle o’ beer in, and mek me a sandwich…An’ look sharp about it.’
‘Get your own beer, Jack, and cut your own sandwich if you’m that ’ungry,’ Alice replied haughtily. ‘I’m goin’ up to settle Edward, then I’m goin’ to bed.’
He stood up again and leered. ‘I suppose you won’t cut me a sandwich ’cause there’s no soddin’ bread and nothing’ to put on it anyway, bar a scrapin’ o’ drippin’.’
‘There’s not even a scrapin’ o’ drippin’, Jack,’ she answered acidly, her hand on the stairs door latch. ‘And you know why? ’Cause it’s been three weeks since I had any housekeepin’ money, that’s why. How d’you expect us to live if you don’t turn any money up, eh? D’you think I’m a flippin’ magician?’
‘Witch, more like.’
‘Well, even if I am a witch, there’s still Edward to think of. You surely don’t begrudge him eatin’ every now an’ again, do yer, and havin’ some decent clothes once in a while?’
‘He gets Richard’s leave-offs. You know he does.’
Alice was struggling to keep her temper under control. ‘Yes, Jack, I know he does. And a good thing, too. If we relied on you we’d be in Queer Street, an’ no two ways. That stupid motorbike gets more spent on it than we do.’
‘You could always find a job yourself. But you won’t, will yer? ’Cause you’m a bone idle little slut, that’s why.’
‘Oh, talk sense. How can I get a job with a three year old child to look after?’
‘Send ’im to your mother’s.’
‘And that’s about all you care, Jack Harper. I’m going to bed.’
‘Well sod off then.’
Alice sighed as she climbed the narrow stairs. Who would have believed, after those heady nights of upright sexual abandon against the privy door of the dairy house when she was sixteen, that things could possibly have turned out like this? Lately, she couldn’t stand Jack even to touch her; not that he showed any inclination to do so anyway, these days. Yet she was aware, more than anyone else, that he was a physically attractive man to anyone who didn’t know him well. She was also aware, more than anyone else, that Jack’s attractiveness was only skin deep.
Alice was a very pretty girl. Her figure was as trim as when she was sixteen, no doubt because she had been so young when she had her baby, and she always took care to look her best, despite the constraints of an empty purse. She was twenty, and womanhood and motherhood had had a beneficial effect, especially on her looks and her bearing. Heads swivelled whenever she walked through the town.
The following morning, when Jack had gone to work, Alice went to move his jacket. In the light that was streaming in through the scullery window, a long, wavy blonde hair shone against the navy material of the coat. Alice picked it off and saw that, stretched out, it was about twelve inches long. She sniffed the coat and swore she could detect the fading fragrance of an unfamiliar perfume. Then she slid her hand into each of the pockets. The search yielded nothing unusual until, from the last pocket, she pulled out a packet with an unfamiliar design. It was a packet, however, that she knew must have contained three French letters. Yet only one remained.
Chapter 17
With no money left to buy food for herself and her child, Alice squashed everything that she owned into two large shopping bags and a basket, and left the little house in Nith Place that had been home. Edward trailed behind her, unaware of the abrupt change taking place in his life.
‘How’s this?’ Lizzie asked when she saw Alice open the door.
‘I’ve left him,’ Alice replied.
‘It took you long enough.’
Alice told her mother everything, about the lack of housekeeping, about his contempt for Edward, about his going out every night, about the other woman, or women.
‘Then you’d best stay here, our Alice. At least till you sort yourself out.’
‘What d’you think Jesse’ll say, Mom?’
‘Oh, Jesse won’t mind, you know that, but so sure as that husband of yours shows his face here he’ll get turned away with a boot up his backside. So you’d better be sure this is what you want. I don’t want him sweet-talking you back to Nith Place if you’re not happy there.’
‘I’ve made me mind up, Mom. He don’t love me, an’ I don’t love him. Oh, Edward loves him all right, but he don’t understand what’s a-goin’ on, does he? Look at him. You have to feel sorry for the poor little soul, but in a week or two he won’t know no different.’
‘Oh, Mom. Who’s gunna want somebody like me with a three year old kid tied to me apron strings? Besides, when do I ever get the chance to go out an’ meet anybody?’
‘Well that’s hardly likely to be a problem now, is it, living here? We hardly ever go out, me and Jesse. And while we’re here, Edward’ll be all right. You’re still young and you’re a nice looking girl, our Alice. Enjoy yourself while you can. There’s still plenty of your old friends about, still single. Some of them might be at the street party on Monday. Have you forgotten it’s the King’s Silver Jubilee?’
‘It never crossed me mind, what with all this trouble,’ Alice replied. ‘Well it’s somethin’ to look forward to. I’ll have to sort me out a decent frock.’
‘There’s just one thing, our Alice…’
‘Oh, I can guess, Mom. I can guess just what you’m goin’ to say – don’t get pregnant again. Don’t worry. That’s somethin’ as I’ll never do unless I get married again, and that won’t be in a rush, I can tell you.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Come on, let’s sort you out a bedroom. You might as well have Maxine’s room while she’s lodging in Brum. Edward can sleep with Richard.’
‘Oh, he’ll love that.’
Having been married more than four years and mistress of her own household, she regarded the return to the good offices of her mother as a retrograde social step. It was a compromise, a temporary inconvenience. After a week there was no sign of it being easy to settle. Lizzie was the dominant female and Alice was finding that fact hard to accept. Alice herself had grown accustomed to the role in her own household. ‘Our Alice, you shouldn’t let this child play in the dirt like that,’ Lizzie would counsel. ‘He might pick up a germ or something.’ And Alice would reply indignantly that he hadn’t picked up a germ yet and, in any case, the child enjoyed clawing at the soil and digging with Jesse’s trowel.
