The Factory Girl

by Nancy Carson

  Yet, troubling her much more than that was the certainty that Neville had violated her. He had stolen enjoyment of her body when she had not the vaguest notion that it was him. He had made a cuckold of Will, his own flesh and blood, and he had turned her into an adulteress when she had no intention ever of deceiving her husband. An odd shiver ran down her spine. She had been used and abused by Neville Worthington to satisfy his own lust; a lust she had been aware of all along; a lust she could never have taken seriously till he confessed it the other day.

  But the worst of his misdeeds was that he had hidden beneath Will’s identity. That hurt more than anything. It was unforgivable. It was the behaviour of an inveterate cheat and it made her very angry. She could not really credit it. It was too outlandish to contemplate.

  She needed desperately to talk to Will. When she arrived home and spoke to him she would get to know for sure. But she must give nothing away. He must have no inkling of what she believed had happened. She must coax out of him whether he did return home for three hours last night, or whether he was detained at Lucas’s by a stomach upset. That was the pin on which it all hinged. What she discovered would determine what she should do next.

  She stepped off the tram at the bottom of Osler Street into bright, summer afternoon sun and walked the half mile or so to Daisy Road, wondering how to approach Will. Should she at least suggest that he might be Neville’s long lost twin? Oh, it was such an awful dilemma! The safest way, she was certain, was to suggest no such thing. She would only say anything at all if she had to. In fact, she would only say anything at all if she found eventually that, God forbid, she was pregnant from the encounter. The thought brought a paradoxical smile to her lips. Never had she contemplated, in her former state of mind, that she would ever have to hope and pray that she was not pregnant. Never could she have contemplated such wicked irony.

  She opened the front door and walked in, her head swimming from all the possibilities and probabilities. She could smell food and realised she had eaten nothing all day. The clock on the mantelpiece said ten to three and, as she hung her shoulder bag over the back of a chair, she heard Will descending the stairs.

  ‘Blimey, you’re back early,’ he said. ‘Given you the sack, have they?’

  She turned to face him, looking into his eyes, stupidly trying to see if there was anything she’d missed when she did that drawing of him long ago. She thought he looked pale and out of sorts. ‘You’re up already. I didn’t know if you’d still be in bed.’

  ‘I’ve been up ages. Had to go to the lavatory again. After last night I thought I was over it. I’ve had my trousers up and down more than a whore’s drawers these last few hours.’

  She smiled, but felt her heartbeat quicken at what his words implied. ‘How are you, Will? When you didn’t come home this morning I went to see if you were still at work. Sidney said you left about ten to nine. He said you’d been suffering in the night.’

  He smiled, shaking his head. ‘God knows what it was I had to eat, but I was on and off the lavatory much of the time after I went from here. And this morning I don’t know how I managed to get back home without an embarrassing accident. Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll do it.’

  He followed her into the kitchen where she filled the kettle from the tap. Her back towards him, he put his hands to her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  ‘How come you’re home early, Henzey? Have you got it as well?’

  She was thankful for an excuse. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ Guiltily, she manoeuvred herself away from him and lit the gas. ‘I felt some pains in my stomach, so I thought I’d best get back.’

  ‘Have a nip of whisky. That might help. It helps kill the germs that cause it.’

  She reached two cups and saucers from the cupboard and laid them out. ‘What time did it start then, Will? Your trips to the privy, I mean?’

  ‘God knows. What time did I leave here?’

  She shrugged, hedging, not knowing which time to give. ‘I don’t know.’ She did not know whether he meant quarter to ten at night, or five past two in the morning. And if it had been Neville who had called, who had trapped her into becoming an adulteress, how could she possibly suggest it had been five past two? If it were five past two, and it had been Neville, she would not want Will to know.

  There was a knock at the door. Will went to answer it. Henzey sighed heavily in frustration when she heard him greet Mrs. Fothergill from next door and ask her in. They joined Henzey in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve on’y come to borra a cup o’ sugar, Henzey,’ Mrs. Fothergill explained apologetically. ‘On’y I’ve run out, an’ I ain’t goin’ to the shops till tomorra.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs. Fothergill. We’ve got plenty of sugar.’ She reached into a cupboard and drew out a blue bag.

  ‘Well, while you’re here, Mrs Fothergill, you might as well have a cup of tea,’ Will suggested. ‘We’ve just put the kettle on.’

  ‘Ooh, luvely.’ She placed the cup she’d brought for the sugar on the table.

  Henzey sighed again. She could have done without this interruption. But at least she now had the truth; or half the truth at least. ‘Take the whole bag, Mrs Fothergill. Just get me a bag to replace it when you go to the shops.’

  ‘Bless yer, Henzey.’

  Henzey, still deep in thought, still preoccupied, reached for another cup and saucer which she placed next to the others. After this interruption, it would seem strange to Will if she kept probing about his activities last night. She would have to be satisfied with the information she had already gleaned. And that information suggested that he could not have returned home last night. He had been ill; certainly too ill to rush back home; certainly too ill to make love like that.

  So it must have been Neville.

  At this final realisation her heart was pounding and she thought her knees would buckle as she felt her colour rise with shame and guilt. She daren’t look into Will’s eyes any more lest he read the outrageous secret she now held locked behind hers.

  Then she was filled with horror. What if Mrs. Fothergill had witnessed Neville’s coming and going in the night? What if she mentioned it now?

  ‘You’m on nights this week, ain’t yer, Will?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, Mrs. Fothergill. But I’m not going tonight. Last night I had a stomach upset. My guts are still unsettled. So I’m going to stay at home tonight.’

  ‘Funny yer should say that. My guts have bin anyhow this last day or two. There must be summat goin’ round. There’s always summat goin’ round…’

  They were not late going to bed. Henzey lay awake in her cotton night-gown, recalling that unspeakable love session last night. Will snuggled down and she sat in his lap in the bed, his arm around her affectionately. In horror she leapt out of bed. If Neville came now, while Will was at home, he would think she’d been having a clandestine affair with him the whole time he was away at work. There would be hell to pay. So she went to the front door and checked that it was locked and bolted.

  Chapter 24

  The summer was rolling on, nights were drawing in, and life went on. Miners dug their coal, foundries cast their iron, forges hammered their steel, and women pottered across cobbled streets to do their shopping. Despite the bleak prospect of war, cricketers stroked red leather balls across white boundaries and spectators duly applauded; Sunday schools held their anniversary processions with pride through canyons of red brick; horses raced, athletes jumped hurdles and threw javelins into the eternal blue sky.

  Will’s two week stint of night shifts ended, to be followed by two weeks of days when life reverted temporarily back to normal. During this time Henzey’s anger, which had been directed principally at Neville Worthington, was shifting and becoming focused on Will. He had given her not the slightest inkling that he was prepared, after all, to father her child. There had been no mention of it since…Oh, he was hot for her all right, but she was not submitti
ng. So, those nights he wanted to make love she made some excuse, turned her back, and made him endure the celibacy she’d threatened. It saddened her to acknowledge that he seemed prepared to see her unhappy. How could he be so heartless? How could he be so self-centred? How could he deliberately forego his marriage vows? How could he spit in the face of convention and defy the institution of marriage, which was intended for the procreation of children?

  Henzey was growing more disconsolate. The happiness she had known when she was first married had evaporated and she knew not where it had gone. It did not gladden her that the very thing which would make her happy would render her husband unhappy and frightened. Their differences seemed irreconcilable and she seemed doomed to accept it. Only time and old age would mend the widening rift that was keeping them spiritually apart. She could have been the happiest girl in the world if only Will had tried to accommodate her, but apparently, he saw fit not to. It would take only one kind word from him to mend things; just one word; but that word was not forthcoming. They failed to discuss their sex life. However, they continued to be civil to each other, and the atmosphere at home was no more than that…civil.

  She would have given anything to return to the former days of warmth and richness; to that love and companionship, in however small a degree, which had been lacking these last weeks. She had marked out her pitch but she was the sole participant in her game. This last couple of weeks she had lain beside him in bed at night without even speaking, hurt, deeply resentful that she should be blessed with a husband so unfeeling. And while she lay in the darkness, feeling unloved, unwanted and dreadfully alone, she could not help recalling that momentous night nearly three weeks ago when Neville had invaded her bed and her body. It was the most glorious night of love she had ever known. She could admit it to herself now, but she would never have the nerve to tell anyone else. It was a secret she held locked in her heart; a secret that must remain unspoken.

  On the first Monday evening of Will’s new stint of night shift working, Henzey went to bed early with a book. Outside the sun still shone, but was low in the evening sky. She would be able to read for some time without the aid of a light. So she undressed, attended to her toiletries and settled herself in bed to enjoy the idiosyncratic romance that had blossomed between Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester. She had toiled hard that day, and as the light faded her eyes began to close as she scanned the pages; her subconscious mind began to invent another story line…She was asleep.

  She had been asleep for over three hours when she was awakened. Her book fell to the floor with a thud and she gasped, disorientated and irritated by the intrusion of a cold body beside her in the darkness.

  ‘Oh, Will!’ she croaked, ruffled at being woken up. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after midnight.’

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?…Oh, get off. You’re freezing cold.’

  For a couple of minutes she lay without moving, her back towards him, her senses gradually shedding the intoxication of deep sleep. She looked to the window and saw that she had not closed the curtains. A curved sliver of pale yellow, which was a new moon, was steering its way through a thousand tiny stars, affording feeble illumination to fall into the room.

  Then she froze with apprehension.

  What if Will was still at work? What if it was not Will lying by her side, warming now, gently nuzzling up to her, his breath hot on the back of her neck, his gentle hand shifting up to her breast? She continued to lie, unmoving, unresponsive to these sensuous caresses. But her throat went dry as if a raging thirst had suddenly struck her. Her heart beat quickened and it hammered good and hard inside her. It must be Neville.

  She had never expected a repeat. Never, she believed, would he have the nerve to take such a risk again. He must be mad. He must be stark, staring mad. Of course, she had wondered how she might respond a second time to such a visit, having the advantage of knowing, this time, that it was not Will; knowing for certain that it had to be Neville. And she had wondered how on earth she would be able to resist the promise of another night of ardent love. She feared that indeed she would be unable to resist. Such love and tenderness was devastatingly enticing, and her fears were becoming more justified with every second that passed. His toe-curling kisses on the back of her neck, his sensuous stroking where it had most impact, were irresistible and she yearned to respond.

  Without uttering a word she turned towards him and at once felt his lips on hers, hungry, searching, probing. Her breathing quickened as she held him in her arms, feeling his hard, compelling body against her own yielding flesh. His arousal made her shiver with wordless anticipation, for she knew he would satisfy her absolutely; she knew too, above all else, that he wanted to give her what Will would not: a child. Thus she felt her guilt evaporate into the night till she felt no guilt at all. She was being driven by Nature. The warm heat of stimulation was surging through her body and all self-control was ebbing away fast. She was ready. She wanted him inside her. Her hand slid down the smooth ridge of his back and clenched his buttocks. Her mouth opened wide under his and he rolled upon her like a wave breaking, then lowered his head to kiss her breast.

  ‘Henzey,’ he said softly, as if savouring a delicious cocktail of her name and her body, and pushed up her night-gown to kiss her warm belly. Then he shifted downwards and lapped her between her legs till she cried out, helpless and astounded with pleasure. ‘Henzey,’ he whispered again, so tenderly, as if hers was the only name in the world worth repeating, and licked her while she clenched his hair and squirmed and moaned with little sighs of pleasure. When he entered her at last, his piercing sweetness elicited a gasp from her at the pleasure of it and at the madness as well of this unanticipated night.

  ‘Henzey, I love you so much,’ he breathed, as they rested afterwards.

  She did not answer. She had not spoken the whole time. She did not want to say anything. She desired no conversation. To converse might prompt her to admit what she knew: that he was not Will; that she had submitted to a man other than the man to whom she’d made her wedding vows. So she lay there silent, entirely sated, yet silently weeping, a thousand unanswered questions whirling through her head. How could she ever assimilate in her mind what was happening? How could she ever believe that this was happening at all? It was all impossible. She could hardly throw her arms around Neville right now, and say, ‘Neville I know it’s you, and I love you for it.’ She could hardly acknowledge Neville at all, let alone utter a confession of love. She certainly did not love him. She still loved Will, despite his stupid foibles. But how could she stop what was happening? Indeed, did she want to stop it?

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ he whispered and touched her cheek. ‘Turn towards me so I can hold you.’

  She shifted towards him biddably, and raised her head so that he could put his arm around her shoulders.

  He hugged her with a great fund of affection. ‘There. That’s better.’

  Tears quivered in her eyes at this little show of tenderness; tenderness that had been missing from her life for too long. She felt the urge to cry out and sniffed, in an attempt to stem it. With her head against his chest she heard his breathing quicken as his desire for her rose again. But he felt her tears falling moist upon his chest and he lowered his head and kissed her eyes, to taste her tears, to blot them up.

  ‘What is it, my love? What’s hurting you?’

  ‘Nothing, Will,’ she said softly, trying hard to sound unemotional, glad of the cover of darkness that was hiding her shame for deliberately trying to bluff him by using the wrong name. ‘I just hope all this is going to be worth it.’

  He uttered a quiet little laugh and raised himself up on his elbow. ‘That you’ll get pregnant, you mean?’

  He felt her nod and he kissed her again on the lips. As he pressed himself to her, the feel of her smooth yielding skin against his aroused him once more. ‘I’m doing my best, my love,’ he sighed. ‘I’m doing my absolute damnedest.’

  She caught he
r breath as he slid easily into her once again.

  The first Friday in September was not the finest day the long summer had presented. It had started dull and, by eleven, a fine drizzle had commenced which, though soft on your face, drenched your clothes in no time at all. It looked as though it had set in for the rest of the day. The once-mooted trip to Neville Worthington’s cottage by the sea had been long forgotten, since Will had had no further contact with him and Neville had sent no messages. However, the weather was still warm, and Will, tired of being pent up in his office and anxious to get out, suggested that he take the day off. Henzey had no objection to being taken shopping in the city. Besides, she wanted to buy a decent tablecloth, and they could do with a new coal scuttle since the one they already possessed looked as if it had been kicked round Pat Collins’ fair, she said.

  So, shortly after mid-day, they walked to the tram stop in Ladywood Road and travelled to the city centre, to streets that were ravines of Victorian architecture; ornate, gothic. The red bricks had lent a warmth and resplendence when clean but, in Birmingham’s smoke-laden atmosphere, their beauty had lain for decades beneath a shroud of grime. The one brilliant exception that stood out, even on this grey day, was the Hall of Memory, white and glistening like a solitary, pristine tooth in a mouthful of decaying molars.

  As the tram rumbled past it at the bottom of Broad Street, Will remarked: ‘You know, Henzey, I’m not one really for travelling on trams or buses. I’m all for buying a car to get about – something decent. What do you think?’ It had been on his mind for some weeks; a diversion that might take her mind off motherhood; another device by which he could minimise this preoccupation that was making her so unpredictable and irrational, so hard to live with.