The Factory Girl

by Nancy Carson

  Henzey unpacked and they settled themselves in, to enjoy the comfort and seclusion of the place and the panoramic sea view through the wide French window of the sitting room. They ate, and later found a pub where they had a drink before going back and sleeping soundly till well after nine next morning.

  The weather was set fair for the latter half of September, but the days were getting shorter. On the Monday they walked into Bognor Regis, ate lunch at a restaurant and toured the shops in the afternoon. After the walk back, they retired to bed early again. Next morning, Tuesday, Henzey experienced her first real morning sickness. There was no doubt about it now. She was well and truly pregnant. But she collected her thoughts, bravely faced breakfast with Will, and uttered not a word about it.

  On the Wednesday morning she was sick again, but could not face breakfast this time. Nor could she face going out. So she stayed at home while Will explored the coastline around Middleton by himself. It was at about half past two in the afternoon that the telephone rang. The operator said there was a long distance call for her. A strong Birmingham accent rose above the crackles.

  ‘Henzey, is that you?’

  ‘It is. Who’s that?’

  ‘Sidney Joel from Lucas’s.’

  ‘Sidney! This is a surprise. Is this a social call?’

  ‘I wish it was, bab, but it ain’t. I need to speak to His Nibs.’

  ‘He’s not here. Shall I give him a message? He’ll be about an hour, I imagine.’

  ‘Ask him to ring me at the works, if ya would. There’s a God almighty flap on here. Fur an’ feathers flyin’ everywhere.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll tell him. I’ll get him to put a call through as soon as he gets back. He shouldn’t be too long.’

  Henzey returned to the back porch where she had been sitting reading a book. She drew her cardigan around her shoulders, sat back in the deck chair and began to read again. In the couple of weeks since she had seen Clara Maitland and Eunice Worthington, she had assimilated much. She had learned a great deal about womankind and women’s wiles; how they would lie and deceive to protect their interests. Men were no match for women when it came to guile.

  She could not concentrate on her book so she put it down. Her eyes were skating over the words, not absorbing them. Her mind was otherwise engaged, contemplating Will, Neville, Eunice, Clara and herself. She looked out across the sea glittering in the bright, afternoon sunshine. Towards the horizon she could see the unmistakable shape and colour of a battleship ploughing the smooth waters of the English Channel, and a private yacht incongruously sailing in the opposite direction closer to the shore. In the couple of weeks since Clara had advised her never to confess to carrying Neville’s child, she had given it a great deal of thought. It ran directly against her nature to deceive, but she had deceived and she accepted without question that she must never tell Will the truth. He must never be in any doubt that the child she was carrying was his. Only Clara knew the reality and Clara would divulge nothing. Henzey believed that Eunice might have an inkling, since she offered advice similar to Clara’s, with no prompting. Yet there was no hint of condemnation; only a sort of camaraderie in the way she spoke, of all girls together. Even if Eunice at some future time were ungracious enough to ask openly whether the child was Will’s, she would follow her advice and, with a suitable look of indignation, say, ‘Of course it is’.

  In the matter of her feelings toward Will, she was confused. He was still the same kind, serious and often intense person with whom she had fallen in love and whom she loved still, but she was no longer in love with him in the romantic sense. He had refused to oblige her in her most ardent wish. That, she believed, was unforgivable. Thus, her feelings of resentment were increasing inexorably. Since marital relations had resumed she had allowed sex once or twice but with little enthusiasm, even though he had ceased to use any protection now. In any case her coolness, it seemed, had discouraged him from bothering her any more. He was still preoccupied with his unexpected good fortune and planning how to tackle his new appointment with the ‘family firm’.

  She had seen nothing of Neville since that last evening they’d spent as his guests; that fateful night when Will had been shocked by the knowledge that he was a Worthington. Yet Neville had been haunting her. She had come to regard him as a sensual, passionate equal. No wonder she had always been drawn to him. When they first met, years ago, and he’d talked about lovemaking that made you breathless and exhausted, she hadn’t had a clue what he’d meant. It sounded appealing nonetheless, but having experienced it at first hand with him, she understood perfectly. The memory of it lingered in her heart and the consequence was growing in her belly.

  When she recalled making love with Neville on those delicious nights, she knew without question it could not have been Will. It could never have been Will, even though, in the darkness of the bedroom, she had believed it was at first. Will had never been that ardent, that hungry for her. He’d never made her squirm and cry out with such intense pleasure as Neville had. Will was never so vital; he was relatively inhibited, reserved, though never lacking in care for all his comparative repression.

  She accepted that she would never be loved like that again. A pity, in a way, that she had ever experienced it. It gave meaning to one of her mother’s sayings: that what you’ve never had you never miss. But she’d had it, and she could admit to herself at least that she missed it. She would always miss it now. If only Will would love her like that. Maybe she could teach him, but then it would not be spontaneous; it had to come from the heart, naturally, not just from the loins. With these wild notions galloping through her head she reckoned she must be as wanton as Eunice had been, with a wayward inclination to be depraved; to wriggle like an eel all night long with a man till she was sore and her body ached. Or was it Mother Nature simply urging her to do her stuff and reproduce, to maintain the species?

  The sound of her name jolted her from her thoughts.

  ‘I’m back, love. Do you fancy a drink of something? I’m parched.’

  ‘Please.’ She got up from her deck chair and went inside to stand leaning against the French window. ‘There was a call for you on the telephone.’

  ‘Was there?’ He placed on the table a folded newspaper he’d bought. ‘Who from?’

  ‘From Lucas’s. It was Sidney Joel. There’s a flap on or something. I said you’d call him back.’

  Will went out to the kitchen for a bottle of lemonade and two glasses, and she heard him slam the pantry door in frustration. ‘Can’t they sort anything out themselves in my department, for God’s sake? Why do they need to bother me? I’m on holiday, dammit!’

  ‘I daresay a simple phone call will sort it out, Will,’ she called.

  He came back into the living room. ‘Anyway, how did they get this number? I didn’t leave it. I didn’t even know there was a phone here till we arrived.’

  He went into the hallway to make his telephone call and, after a few seconds, she heard him give the operator Lucas’s telephone number. Henzey poured herself some lemonade and went back outside, clutching her glass. She sat down, placed it on the table beside her and picked up her book again. Again, the written words said nothing to her. She could hear Will’s voice. He sounded annoyed but she could not hear what he was saying. It was another ten minutes before he came and stood at the French window looking on to the porch.

  ‘I’ve got to go back, Henzey,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘Oh, no! I can’t believe it. We’ve only been here five minutes. What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s a problem with one of the jobs for Worthington Commercials. One of the prototypes. It’s packed up again. Nobody can fathom it. Worthingtons are working to a tight schedule and they’re adamant it’s got to be put right this week. Responsibility’s down to me. I’ll have to go back and sort it out. Especially now. I am sorry, love.’

  She slammed her book down angrily and stood up. ‘Well I suppose I’d better start packing. When a
re we leaving?’

  ‘There’s no need for you to come, my love. You might as well stay here. Hopefully I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m having my holiday by hook or by crook…So are you.’

  ‘I’m not staying here on my own, Will. I don’t know a soul. I’d be bored to death on my own.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got your book. There’s a wireless in the living room. You could go for walks. You could paint. You said you wanted to paint. The weather’s due to stay fine. Relax. Enjoy it. In any case, I’d fixed a surprise for you.’

  ‘A surprise? Well you’d better unfix it, I suppose. I’d rather go back with you. We can always come back here afterwards.’

  ‘All right.’ He looked pleased that she wanted to return home with him. ‘We’ll get the train in the morning. By the way, it was Neville who gave Sidney this telephone number.’

  ‘I assumed as much when you said you didn’t even know there was a phone here.’

  ‘He certainly intends to have his pound of flesh.’

  ‘Oh well. If he wants you back there, Will, you can hardly refuse.’

  ‘I know. That’s the problem.’ Will picked up his newspaper. ‘Come on, let’s go out on the porch and relax. That’s what we’re here for. I’ll worry about Lucas’s and Worthington’s tomorrow.’ He sat down and read with mounting horror Hitler’s latest decrees. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best I go back.’

  Henzey looked up from her book. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Look at this.’ He tapped the article in the paper with the back of his hand. ‘There’s got to be war sooner or later.’

  ‘Talk of war scares me, Will.’

  ‘It scares everybody. Nobody wants it, but sooner or later…That maniac Hitler can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s doing.’

  ‘How can you do anything? It’s up to the politicians.’

  ‘I can do my bit, Henzey. This Worthington job is for military trucks. I’ll consider it my pre-war contribution, helping to put a stop to his crazy antics by getting the damn things right.’

  They fell silent, reading, for an hour or more.

  ‘What time shall we eat?’ Will asked eventually.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a bit peckish now.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it ready. I thought a nice ham and cheese salad…’

  ‘Fine.’

  She stood up, then hesitated, standing at the back of his deck chair, looking out across the sea. ‘Will, I think I might stay here after all,’ she said lightly. ‘If you’re only going to be away a night or two, it seems pointless packing everything then lugging it all back again.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t have to pack, if you think about it. We could leave it all here.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so…All the same, I think I’ll stay. I wouldn’t be a hindrance then. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No, ’course not. It’s what I suggested in the first place.’

  ‘I’ll stay here then.’ She turned and went inside.

  Will left early the following morning, apologising again for having to go. He said he’d try to be back the next day but, if he was going to be delayed, he would telephone. To occupy herself, Henzey cleaned the cottage from one end through to the other, thinking the whole time of her new situation, how it might affect Will, and how Will’s new situation would affect them both. They had been presented with a God-sent opportunity to be happy and prosperous beyond their wildest dreams. It would be a tragedy to squander it by allowing her secret to ruin their marriage. But what had been done could not be undone. And what had been done she did not regret. It just had to remain hidden.

  It had occurred to her that Will’s being called back to Lucas’s might be a genuine panic requiring his expertise. On the other hand, though, it smacked of interference from Neville. Perhaps he had deliberately engineered Will’s return to get him out of the way. She was ashamed to admit to herself that that very notion had perversely urged her to remain at Middleton, while Will conscientiously returned to Birmingham.

  Henzey ate some lunch and decided to stroll along the sands towards Bognor. The weather was fine and dry and she reckoned that as long as she took a cardigan to keep warm from the sea breeze, the exercise would do her good. She would be able to ponder things more; and the more time she had to think, the easier it was to come to terms with everything. So she walked for an hour and a half, barefoot most of the way, across the sand and the shingle. The lines of breakwaters jutting out of the beach made a graphic pattern and she decided that at some time she must capture it on paper.

  When she returned to Middleton, her legs aching from the exertion of walking on shingle, she put on her shoes and strolled up Sea Lane towards the village in search of a café, happy to be on firmer ground again. She could buy a cup of tea before returning to the cottage. She bought fresh vegetables from a greengrocer and meat from a butcher. She was tired by now but her appetite was huge, and back at the house she ate heartily; alone with her thoughts.

  Outside, the evening sun was lending a deepening yellow glow as it started its spectacular descent through a lattice of cyan and magenta clouds. It was worth capturing. If only she had the ability to capture it in watercolours. Hurriedly, she scooped up her paints, brushes and a sheet of textured watercolour paper from the dozen or so she’d brought, filled a mug with water and began painting. The relaxation that drawing and painting always brought her was so soothing. It concentrated her mind on her subject, so that it seldom wandered. Worries evaded her while she painted. And by the time the light had faded, rendering further work impossible, she realised she had pondered little about herself, about Will, or even Neville.

  But that realisation triggered off again thoughts of Neville. What if he had fixed things after all to ensure that Will was away? What if he called on her tonight? Her heart started pounding at the thought.

  She left her watercolour taped to the table to dry flat, collected her paints together and washed her brushes. She put some milk to boil on the hob and made herself a mug of cocoa, which she took to bed along with her book. She tried to read again but recurrent thoughts of Neville and the possibility of his invading her bed again that night ensured that she absorbed little. If he wanted to come she could do nothing to prevent it. If he wanted to come she would welcome it. If he was going to come, she hoped it would be soon…before she fell asleep.

  However, it was morning that arrived, not Neville. Henzey opened her eyes and realised she had spent the night alone. She was relieved, yet at the same time bitterly disappointed. She stretched and yawned, turned over and closed her eyes again. Why hadn’t he come? It was a heaven-sent opportunity. Perhaps he would make sure that Will was detained another day or two and come today?

  She could not rest. She slid out of bed in her night-gown and went to the bathroom. When she was dressed she wandered to the French window. How different the light was now to how it had been last evening. She glanced at her painting. The rich oranges, yellows and vibrant reds of her sunset were in stark contrast to the pale, misty blue of this morning. Nature used such an unyielding method of characterising its phases. Perhaps she should sit down now and paint the same scene by this flat, indifferent light. A real artist would. But where was the inspiration? No wonder artists painted sunsets. So, instead, she went to the kitchen, boiled the kettle and made herself some breakfast.

  It was shortly after ten o’ clock when the telephone rang.

  ‘It’ll take a miracle for me to get back today,’ Will said. ‘Shall you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Oh, I did some cleaning, then I went for a long walk along the beach. After tea I did a watercolour – I’m quite pleased with it as well. I had an early night…’

  ‘And have I got a surprise for you,’ he exclaimed, interrupting her.

  ‘You mean as well as the one you already mentioned?’

  ‘Yes, two surprises.’ He laughed, and she thou
ght how bright he sounded.

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘It’ll be worth the wait, I can tell you. I’d better go, love. Looks like I won’t be back till tomorrow.’

  ‘Have you seen Neville?’ She tried to make it sound like an afterthought.

  ‘Yes, I saw him yesterday. But I’ll tell you about that when I see you. He’s travelling to London today.’

  ‘To London? Oh.’ Her heart thumped. What if he’d told Will a lie? ‘Well, I’d better let you go then, Will. I’ll see you when I see you. ’Bye.’

  ‘ ’Bye, darling.’

  She did not like herself much for thinking it, but the likelihood of Neville coming to see her when she was alone in his cottage and not going to London, as he had evidently told Will, thrilled her. London had to be his excuse to get away. So he was coming to see her, to be with her, to make love to her once more; and her desire to make love to him was growing inexorably.

  The more she thought about it the more certain she was that this whole situation was just a ploy. She began holding conversations with Neville inside her head; conversations that reflected the circumstances and time of his arrival. She imagined it first to be at about tea time; he would say sorry for detaining Will in Birmingham, smile knowingly, then whisk her off to some restaurant or other before they made love. He might arrive before that, take her out in his boat for the afternoon and contrive to make love to her on some deserted beach as the sun went down. He might simply be his old self, before those midnight visitations, uncertain of her, uncertain of himself, anxious that she should know how he felt, but reticent about forcing himself upon her for fear of rebuttal. And these thoughts made her heart pound with anticipation.

  Something had been in the back of her mind, however, struggling to surface into coherent logic. And it was at this time that those thoughts took shape. It had been with complete and utter surprise that she had learned of Eunice’s affair with Billy Witts. It had surprised her even more to learn that her beautiful, lovely daughter, Kitty, was actually Billy’s child. She might have had a child like that herself if only Billy had…