by The Castlefield Collector (Watch for the Talleyman) (retail) (epub)
‘You’re more than earning your keep, girl,’ Cabbage Lil told her. ‘You’re a vital part of the team.’
‘Why shouldn’t I pull my weight? You’ve given me a home. Saved my life in a way. I want you to know how much that means to me.’
Cabbage Lil put back her head and laughed till her sides ached. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when someone was actually grateful for being taken in by a tart, let alone be happy to call a brothel her home. You’re a right card, you are, Dolly Tomkins.’
Dolly gave a shy grin. ‘I know how to make the best of things, and which side my bread is buttered, if you catch my drift.’
Cabbage Lil’s gaze grew quite shrewd, as she looked Dolly over, taking in her shining bob of raven hair, her glowing skin and sweet smile. ‘And how much further will you go, I wonder, little one, to express this gratitude of yours? No, don’t decide now. But you have a charm I could market, no doubt about that. No doubt at all.’
* * *
Dolly’s first client was due in less than a half-hour and she was nervous. The other girls, whom she’d come to know and like over the weeks she’d been staying here, were all outrageously vain with a fondness for wearing anything a bit showy. Dolly had objected when Cabbage Lil had offered her a tangerine frock with frills and tassels, declaring she could never wear such a thing. But Lil had insisted that her task was to please the customer, not herself. Gladys had put rouge on her cheeks, painted her lips and nails red, and put something dark on her lashes and eyebrows. Joan even loaned her one of her feathers to stick in a band that she fastened around Dolly’s forehead. Dolly felt like a circus clown and wanted to hide away, not parade herself before strange men.
What was she doing here? Whatever had given her the daft notion that she could carry this off? All right, Lil had provided her with a warm bed these last weeks and Dolly had paid for her keep by helping with the chores, doing the cleaning and washing and providing meals for the girls at all sorts of odd hours. Nothing else had been required of her.
Even today, Cabbage Lil had placed no pressure on her to do this. She’d declared herself quite happy with the way things were, so Dolly had only herself to blame. The decision had been entirely hers, the only way she could think of to make sufficient money to start again.
And if her mother did it, it couldn’t be too bad, could it?
She had only to listen to the tales told by Sylvie and Fran of their own unfortunate experience with the overlooker, to understand their decision. Was her situation so very different? All right, Nifty hadn’t exactly done the deed, but then Fran and Sylvie hadn’t clobbered their assailant and done him in, as she had with Nifty. Dolly had scoured the papers for weeks afterwards, quite convinced he was dead. She’d also been responsible for the accident, which had led to Calvin’s death. Oh, she was in right lumber she was. Dolly looked at what was left of her wrecked life and closed her mind upon it all. It was far too horrible to contemplate. So why not make some real money for a change?
Both Sylvie and Fran had secretly admitted to not relishing the life, but having no choice in the matter. Neither did she have any choice, so Dolly had made up her mind to lie back and think of the money. That’s what the other girls did, and that’s what she would do.
Lil had chosen what she termed ‘a nice gent’ for her first. He was a real swell who worked as a clerk in a warehouse and was not known to be violent. ‘Once you’ve clocked him, girl, you’ll be raring to go with the next.’
Is this how you started, Mam? Dolly wondered. Like mother, like daughter. Well, why the hell not?
* * *
Dolly struggled with the buttons on the tangerine frock, keeping a professional smile pinned on her face, as instructed by Cabbage Lil. Meanwhile, Bernard – that was his name, or at least the one he’d instructed her to use – sat on the bed and watched. His piggy eyes in the round fat face were dark with lust, the full mouth moist and quivering. Dolly was all fingers and thumbs, the tiny pearl buttons refusing to do her bidding and she could see he was growing impatient. Then he suddenly got up from the bed, came over to her and ripped the buttons apart.
‘Take it off, for God’s sake. I haven’t got all day.’
The frock dropped to the floor, forming a puddle of silk around her feet and Dolly stood before him now in her knee-length Princess petticoat, shaking with fear.
He gave her a leering grin and took a long swig of beer from the pint glass he’d brought up with him. Dolly wished she’d accepted the shot of gin which Gladys had offered her, but she’d been taught at Sunday School to tread the paths of temperance, had even signed the pledge and couldn’t quite bring herself to break it. As if that mattered now when she was about to do something far worse: turn herself into a woman of shame.
‘Come on lass, get them togs off, or have I to help you with the rest an’ all?’
‘No, no, you enjoy the show.’ Saying what she’d been told, and at least managing a sickly smile, Dolly kicked off the petticoat. Now clad only in silk cami-knickers and a lace trimmed, broché bodice with long suspenders attached that held up a pair of white silk stockings, more likely artificial silk but they certainly felt glamorous. Dolly rested one foot on the edge of the bed, unpinned one stocking and started to roll it down, taking as long as possible over the task, and not simply from a fear of laddering it. Undressing in front of this slavering stranger was bad enough. But when that was done, actually getting into bed with him would be far worse. Beyond her comprehension!
She started on the next stocking, mouth dry as sawdust and could actually see her leg physically shaking. If she put it next to the other, they’d knock out a tune. Dolly turned her attention to the bodice, searching for straps and fasteners with trembling fingers. There was only this and the cami-knickers left. What then? Dolly wasn’t letting herself think any further, was keeping her mind firmly closed on what would happen next.
Bernard was kneeling up on the bed, his eyes out on stalks. He’d taken off his trousers and was, by this time, clad only in the grubby striped shirt he wore to work, the lap of it hanging over his fat backside while he was doing something nasty with his hand at the front, jerking in a funny sort of way and making loud grunting noises. Dolly took one look, gave a great sob of revulsion and that was enough. She fled. She didn’t care that she was half naked as she ran along the landing in front of several gawping men on their way to and from various bedrooms. She didn’t stop running until she reached the sanctuary of her own room up in the attic, the one she shared with Fran and Sylvie. Flinging herself down upon the flea-bitten blankets on her bed, she sobbed as if her heart would break.
Chapter Thirteen
Having discovered she was pregnant Betty Deurden hanged herself from the banister with her own dressing gown cord. Her poor mam was taken off to the asylum with dementia. Friends and neighbours said she’d never be right again. Word was now being put about that Nifty was the one who attacked Betty, though no one could prove it.
The gossips were also saying that Dolly Tomkins had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Sam was bewildered. What was going on? When Aggie had first told him, he’d thought she was spinning him some daft yarn by accusing him of running off with her sister. Then Dolly’s mam came and asked the three of them, Matt, Davey and himself, if they’d seen her. Maisie it was who told them that Nifty Jack had attacked her and ended up in hospital as a result. The three lads realised then that the situation was serious. Matt was beside himself, hopping about from foot to foot as if he wanted to chase off that very minute, soft fool that he was.
‘We don’t want what happened to Betty to happen to Dolly,’ he said.
‘By heck, you’re right,’ Sam agreed. ‘If that gobshite has hurt her, I’ll finish the job Dolly started with me own bare hands.’ It briefly crossed his mind that if he spent his free time searching for Aggie’s daft sister, there’d be precious little left to spend with the captivating Evie. But then he’d waited night after night for her at the mill gates, and th
ere was still no sign.
Maisie put a kindly hand to Sam’s cheek. ‘Nay, lad, I know you’re fond of her, and she’s fair taken with you, but revenge won’t do no good to anyone. That Nifty Jack won’t be going anywhere in a hurry, mark my words. What we have to do is to find my lass. Daft lump must have got some idea fixed in her head and has done a runner.’
Matt frowned. ‘What sort of idea, Mrs Tomkins? Does she imagine that she’s killed him, do you reckon?’
Maisie snatched at the suggestion since it neatly avoided any further explanations, and it may well be true. ‘Aye, very likely that’s it. But she can’t be far away now can she, or come to much harm?’
The desperate appeal in her eyes left all three young men lost for words. What possible comfort could they offer? The twin cities of Manchester and Salford had more than a sufficient number of dark alleys, courts and ginnels, cellars, empty warehouses and old mill buildings, some of them far from salubrious, in which one young girl could hide away for a long time, perhaps indefinitely. And they knew from personal experience what evils lurked in the shadows.
Matt put his arm about the woman’s shoulders, giving her a little squeeze. ‘She’ll probably walk through that door any minute, Maisie.’
‘Aye, course she will, lad. She’s had a hard time of it lately, but she’ll be back, like you say.’
‘She’ll turn up like the proverbial bad penny, grinning sheepishly and asking for a cuddle from her mam, like she allus did when she got up to mischief. Remember the time she got lost on Dawneys Hill that day we went flying kites and had a picnic?’
‘Eeh, she must have walked for miles, poor love, then caught a bus all by herself and fetched up at home hours later, no bother at all. And she were only four.’ Maisie’s eyes were bright with tears at the memory of that worrying day. ‘What a trouble that lass has been to me all her life.’ She half turned away but then added, just for good measure, ‘To be on the safe side like, will you all keep a look-out? Keep an eye open for her?’
Matt looked at her unsmiling, brown eyes glittering with a strange light. ‘Aye, Maisie, don’t you fret. We’ll do all we can.’
‘Course we will. We’ll find her,’ Sam put in, not wanting to be sidelined by Matt’s more sympathetic style. Besides, helping to search for Dolly would offer him the opportunity to keep in touch with Aggie, to check out that she was serious over this engagement of hers. ‘We’ll make it our first priority. I’ll be round to yours first thing after work tomorrow, Maisie, right? You know you can rely on me.’
* * *
Evie discovered that she quite enjoyed being footloose and fancy-free. Just nineteen years old with money in her purse, free to please herself what she did, and felt desperate for fun!
She did not return to the mill, or seek out Sam Clayton. Evie wasn’t one to waste her time on those who didn’t properly appreciate her. All too boring! Besides, she’d thought of another grand idea. She decided it was time that she saw something of the world and broadened her experiences a little. Where was the point in having money if you didn’t spend it? Travel, that was the thing, and with winter approaching she made plans to visit the continent, the Riviera, Italy, Rome.
Mumsie was against the idea at first, not unnaturally, but once the notion came to her that she could accompany her daughter, as chaperone, her entire view changed. ‘How delightful. I’ve always had a fancy to visit the Portuguese Riviera, much quieter and an excellent winter climate, I believe. I could bring my watercolours. You wouldn’t object to a little company, would you darling? I really don’t think it quite proper for you to go alone. We could perhaps hire a villa for a few weeks. I believe they are quite cheap.’ This comment was for the benefit of her husband, who was frowning upon them both. ‘You wouldn’t object to my taking a short vacation, would you darling?’
‘Apart from the fact that there’s been a further fall in demand for cotton products, and in commodity prices, plus Japan is now developing its own textile industry and could finish us with lower prices, no, I see no reason why you shouldn’t go on a continental spree and spend every last penny that I own.’
‘Oh Pops, don’t be such an old misery boots.’ Evie was not against being accompanied by her mother, not in the slightest. They got along well enough and Clara was good company. Better still, once engaged upon her painting, she was quite easy to shake off, which would leave her free to do exactly as she pleased.
‘We could have marvellous fun,’ Evie agreed, giving her darling mama a hug, then went to kiss her father on his frowning brow, thinking she’d best try harder to win him round. ‘Do let us go, Pops. At least you don’t have to pay for a wedding.’
And feeling guilty that he was spoiling his only daughter’s continental trip as well as her wedding, Nathan growled something to the effect that he’d be glad to be rid of the pair of them and have some peace for a while.
* * *
It took no more than four days for Evie and Clara to reach Lisbon. They’d travelled by liner, a ‘floating palace’, and the sea had been like a millpond, even round the Bay of Biscay. From here they took a train to their hotel at Mont Estoril and were utterly delighted as it was run on English lines with every comfort so there was no difficulty with the food, or the language, since the proprietors spoke it fluently.
They settled in quite comfortably, soon making the acquaintance of the other guests, and the climate was indeed most clement, with balmy breezes wafting in from the sea. So content were they that they decided not to go home for Christmas. Following this decision, Nathan wrote to remind his wife and daughter that money was tight and his bank account not a bottomless pit.
‘Why does Pops have to be such a wet blanket?’ Evie complained, making Clara laugh.
The letter was little more than a lecture on thrift, including a lot of boring stuff about the bank manager having to increase his overdraft, and the state of the country going from bad to worse, despite appearances to the contrary. Even the miners had now been forced back to work, largely because it was harder to live on homegrown vegetables and little else in winter time. Nathan was also having trouble with his colleagues in the cotton industry and told some convoluted tale of a member of the Federation of Master Cotton Spinners not being prepared to attend a dinner that included merchants, whom the man saw as his natural enemies. Lot of damned nonsense!
Evie sighed, and skimmed over that bit. He went on to ask if they remembered the girl who had saved Evie from the mob during the strike.
She seems to be missing. Has simply vanished and nobody knows where she is. Her mother is quite demented with worry, I believe. She appears to have had some sort of altercation with Jack Trafford, the talleyman, for whom she was working as a housekeeper. He has ended up in hospital with a cracked head and she has gone they know not where.
His letter was so depressing that it had quite the opposite effect to Nathan’s intended purpose and decided them to stay well into the new year. Why should they return home to the gloom of a cotton slump when they were perfectly comfortable here?
Clara would sit happily for hours on her balcony, painting pictures of the prettily coloured villas that fringed the coast, occupied by the Lisboan aristocracy. She would doze in the sun, gaze out over the Atlantic, or read endless romantic novels. Sometimes she might chivvy Evie into joining her for a stroll along the shore as far as the Bocca da Inferno. It was always spectacular on a windy day to see the waves smashing into the cliffs, carving out little caves and hollows in the rock. On quieter days they would bathe in the sun-warmed sea and feel wickedly daring.
Evie was never still for a moment. There was always something going on: a cocktail party, soirèe or dinner to attend; people to meet, and best of all – men to flirt with. Any number of men in fact who came and went over the course of that winter, many of them well-heeled and some seriously rich.
The best place to come across them was at the casino. Every night, Evie dressed as imaginatively and glamorously as she dared, always choosing
bright colours to suit her mood: tango, cerise, burnt sienna and her particular favourite, mauve tulle. She had her hair cut into an Eton crop, wore nail varnish and took up smoking, since Pops wasn’t around to stop her. She drank copious amounts of champagne but only ever picked at her food, determined to stay reed slim. To own a bust was so declassée and she hated all those contraptions of canvas and elastic. So restricting. Soft flesh was much more exciting for a man to feel.
Not that she was concerned in the slightest about finding a suitable husband. Should one present himself, Evie would certainly not be against the idea but she no longer ached to walk down the aisle. She might even try a ‘companionate marriage’ which were all the rage and had no formal ties at all, so that if the latest beau started to bore her, or, more important, ran out of money, she could move on to the next delicious man. She was having far too good a time, at the moment, even for that, and the parties were growing ever more wild. These were often themed by style of dress: Romans, circus, gypsies, pyjama, even a baby party once when they all went along wearing nappies and little smocks, carrying cardboard dummies. What a hoot!
She saw herself as a gad-about-girl, thoroughly relishing being free and single. And a healthy sex-life was essential for her mental well-being, Evie decided.
The first time she went to bed with a man wasn’t particularly successful. She’d imbibed a little too much champagne, had agreed to take a midnight stroll with Archie or Thomas or whatever his name happened to be, and it had all been over before ever she realised what was happening. Rather a let down without the slightest jolt of excitement. She had an uneasy feeling that, like Sam, or whatever he was called, in the back of her motor, his attention had been elsewhere.