The Castlefield Collector

by The Castlefield Collector (Watch for the Talleyman) (retail) (epub)

  But Harold had promised her that if they both worked hard for a year or two, and held back on starting a family, they could afford a place in the suburbs; somewhere a bit more upmarket like Rusholme, Didsbury or Wythenshawe. So it pleased her to see Dolly was still struggling, and she sincerely hoped that even if Sam was better looking than dear Harold, he was less of a provider. She didn’t want her younger sister getting above herself, or worse still, becoming better off than herself.

  ‘So when are you going to tell him about – you know?’

  ‘Cabbage Lil said that I mustn’t, that men were a bit two-faced about sex and didn’t want to know anything – unpleasant – about their girl. Sam said he didn’t need to know all the details, so why should I tell him?’

  ‘You know that he’ll find out anyway. Someone will tell him, even if you don’t.’

  Dolly stared at her sister, wide-eyed, and drew in a shaky breath. ‘You wouldn’t!’

  Aggie merely flickered her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders in a non-committal gesture as she gave her full attention to polishing her new sideboard. She wasn’t in a particularly good mood today since Harold, having promised her a new summer frock, had gone back on his word, claiming money was a bit tight at present, what with the wedding and honeymoon and all, so would she mind making over last year’s instead? Would she mind? Of course she flipping well would. So she certainly had no patience for Dolly’s self imposed little problems, particularly when they involved Sam Clayton. Serve her right for running away in the first place. ‘All I’m saying is, don’t leave it too long.’

  ‘I won’t, so you’d best not poke your nose in where it’s not wanted. I’ll know who’s spilled the beans if he ever did get wind of it. I’ll tell him myself, thanks very much, in my own good time, and I don’t expect there to be a problem. He’ll understand and be fine about it, I’m sure. You were wrong about him before. Sam doesn’t mind in the least my being a bastard, if that’s what I am, so there.’

  ‘He’ll not be so generous about this other business,’ Aggie warned.

  Dolly was less sure of her ground than she had made out, guessing Aggie was probably right. Now that Sam had actually gone so far as to ask her to marry him, she really should tell him the full tale, whatever the risks. How could she live with herself otherwise?

  Even if Dolly never set eyes on Cabbage Lil ever again, the fact that Aggie, her spiteful sister, knew her secret and held it as a threat over her, was something she really couldn’t live with. She’d be in a constant state of fear, a bag of nerves that Aggie might spill the beans, should it take her fancy, and Sam would learn the truth in the worst possible way, just as she had over her own birth.

  But what if he didn’t believe in her innocence and thought she’d actually done it with that horrible chap? What then? She might lose him.

  Dolly thought of her own reactions when she’d learned of her own mother’s failings. How she’d run from the house, unable to face the truth that despite all her chapel-going, and her preaching to be good and moral, her mam was a woman of easy virtue, just as Aggie had always claimed. Even now, the subject was too painful to be mentioned between them.

  What if Sam didn’t believe in her innocence either?

  Oh, it was all too dreadful to contemplate. Surely, it was best not to rake up the past, but to plan for the future? Sam loved her and they were saving up to get married. She couldn’t be happier. It was more important to find work, so she too could save up. Dolly decided to put the matter of Cabbage Lil right out of her mind and deal with it at some point in the future. Aggie wouldn’t do anything in a hurry. Even her selfish sister couldn’t be so cruel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Evie saw herself as a sort of female Prince of Wales. That’s not to say she thought of herself as a princess, since ladies of the royal household seemed to have restricted lives, confined by protocol and tradition, whereas the men were largely free to come and go as they pleased. Or so it appeared from all the gossip columns that she read. And while the prince danced with every pretty girl from Newfoundland to Canberra, New York to Paris, Evie did the same with every eligible bachelor, and quite a few married gentlemen in between.

  She tried her hand, or rather her toes, at the ‘Twinkle’, the ‘Jog Trot’, ‘Missouri Walk’, ‘Black Bottom’ and her favourite, the ‘Shimmy’. Of the ‘Charleston’ she considered herself an expert. Her one criterion for her choice of partner, as with the prince, was that they should be good-looking, and preferably very rich.

  Dearest Mumsie returned home to Salford at the end of spring 1927 because she missed her darling husband, leaving Evie in the charge of Miss Howell, a companion. Naturally, she didn’t stay with her but picked up a few nondescripts and gigolos along the way and moved on to Spain. Then to Rome where she encountered Paolo at the top of the Campanile di Giotto in Florence, not too satisfactory since he became angry with her when she discovered she had no head for heights and was therefore nowhere near as athletic as he would have liked.

  She moved on to Paris and met sexy Philippe who brought her breakfast in bed in their little pension on the Montmartre before climbing in beside her to help her eat it, largely by decorating her breasts with strawberries and licking the cream from her nipples. Bliss! Ah, what a delightful spring that had been. Recalling the places she had visited was the only way she could remember the names of her many lovers.

  There was one awkward moment when she’d found herself ‘up the spout’ but a short visit to a certain address on the left bank had put that right. This woman had been clean, if expensive, even so the bleeding had taken weeks to stop. The pain was excruciating – a dreadful bore – which meant that in the end she had to be taken into hospital. The doctor had gently informed her that she would be unable to bear another child as her womb had been punctured. He did not ask how that terrible thing had come about and Evie didn’t trouble to explain. They both pretended that it was some unforeseen accident, so that no charges could be brought. Evie shed not a single tear, felt only an unspeakable relief, as she never had been able to imagine herself with children, dealing with sticky fingers and tantrums, and happily left the hospital that day.

  Enjoying herself in this hedonistic fashion was an excellent revenge against her father’s petty meanness and the humiliation he’d heaped upon her by ruining her wedding. Best of all, was to deny him the possibility of a grandson. Serve him right. She smoked her head off, not knowing what kind of cigarette it was exactly that she fixed in her long, tortoiseshell holder. She would drink tea out of a brandy glass, put up her hair in a fish net and daub jam on her bread with a spoon if she felt like it and not care a jot. Most vital of all, she mixed with the right sort of people in various countries and then with actors, artists, dancers and musicians. She became, in short, a bright young thing and continued in this fashion for some time.

  But ultimately grew bored. Proposals had become less common, and there no longer seemed to be the enticing choice of escorts she had once enjoyed. Paris, she decided, was overcrowded, and rented a ‘studio’ in Mayfair and became Bohemian, as dearest Mumsie had done before her. Except, of course, Clara was a proper artist and had actually sold several of her paintings to various hotel guests, friends and acquaintances they’d made along the way. Evie, on the other hand, only dabbled.

  And then her regular sum of money was stopped.

  Her father finally called a halt to her profligate ways and, no matter how much she protested, he remained adamant that he would finance her excesses no longer. Evie wrote him any number of persuasive letters, some attempting to be humorous and jokey, others making promises she had no intention of keeping. When those didn’t work, she became maudlin and self-pitying, making sure she smudged the ink with her tears. Not even these sentimental little notes had the desired effect and, as a last resort, she was forced to drive her car all the way to Manchester and beg him to relent.

  ‘Absolutely not! Enough is enough. I have watched your progress with an increasing l
oss of patience, Evie, and it is time for this hedonistic lifestyle to end. The moment has come for you to do something useful with your life, perhaps even to find employment,’ her father firmly stated.

  ‘You expect me to work?’ Evie made the mistake of bursting out laughing.

  Had she not done so, Nathan might well have backed down, but enraged by the bills that had flowed in from every corner of the continent and worried over the failing fortunes of the mill, her casual attitude was too much to bear. ‘You will indeed find yourself some useful employment, or I will put you to work in the mill. Do I make myself clear?’ Daughters, he decided, were the very devil.

  Evie, of course, did nothing of the sort and, within a month punctuated with many similar arguments and despite her vigorous protests, sulks and near hysterics, he carried out his threat. She wept and sobbed, pleaded and argued but Nathan remained adamant. He would fund her irresponsible lifestyle no longer. ‘You must stand on your own two feet from now on.’

  ‘How can you do this to your daughter?’ Clara protested.

  ‘Because it might teach her some proper values if she encounters real people in the world! We’ve protected and indulged her for far too long, and this is the result.’

  ‘We’ve given her the love she deserves.’

  ‘As well as nannies and governesses, fancy schools and expensive clothes, holidays and parties. If she asked for something, we gave it to her – anything rather than sit down and talk to her, or spend time with our daughter. Because you resent my apparent neglect and became entirely engrossed in those dratted pictures, you churn out by the score. Me, because I had to somehow earn the money to fund all of this! But now I’m calling a halt. Enough is enough. It’s time for her to grow up. With the best will in the world I cannot sustain her in the manner to which she has become accustomed. If she wishes to continue in this heedless fashion, she must find herself a rich husband who can accommodate her. Otherwise she must work for a living like the rest of us.’

  Clara went ash pale. ‘You would abandon darling Evie, because she isn’t the son you craved?’

  ‘Because she’s a liability!’ he roared. ‘And a lazy, selfish little madam.’

  * * *

  Much to the surprise of the girls at the mill, a new member came to join them. They gathered around to take a closer look, plucking at the skirt of her fashionable frock, touching her hair, remarking on her scarlet lipstick. Her whole appearance was entirely inappropriate for working in a mill.

  ‘By heck,’ said one. ‘This is a turn up for the book. The boss’s daughter gracing us with her presence, so do you want to borrow me pinny, love? You mustn’t get that fancy frock mucky?’

  Evie shuddered with distaste. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Harold hurried over. ‘Don’t you cause no trouble, you lot. Get back to work. I’ll find Miss Barker an overall.’

  ‘Ooh, Miss Barker, is it? Well I’m Miss Crabtree then, said another, a red-headed girl called Elsie who seemed to have quickly stepped into Betty Deurden’s shoes and set herself up as ringleader. ‘If she’s to get special treatment we want the same, or we might object, mightn’t we girls?’

  There were murmurs of assent from the gathered group and Harold began to feel a bit hot around the collar. The last thing he needed was any more trouble. He thought Nathan Barker must have taken leave of his senses to put his daughter to work in the spinning room with this lot.

  Aggie pushed herself forward to offer her support. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing she’s come. Happen things will start to improve round here. Better manners for a start.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m staying,’ Evie said. ‘This is purely a temporary arrangement, I do assure you.’

  ‘Temporary or not, you’ll get stuck in and work like the rest of us,’ ordered Harold, reasserting his authority. ‘Now then, Aggie, you can show Miss er um… what’s what.’

  ‘I’d be glad to,’ Aggie said, preening herself for being chosen, as she naturally should be, being the wife of the overlooker.

  Elsie Crabtree sneered as the pair walked away. ‘I must make sure I’m around when our Miss Barker comes face to face with the lavvies in the mill yard for the first time. That could be most entertaining.’

  * * *

  In the months leading up to her wedding, Dolly got by on odd jobs, taking work wherever she could find it. The best one was packing the finished cones ready for the weaving shed. A menial task but she was delighted simply to be back in a mill, until the firm went bust and she was back looking for work again. After that she got a part-time job in a warehouse, packing knitting bobbins, and another finishing the seams on overalls, but neither lasted very long. Sometimes she would stand in for Edna Crawshaw at the corner shop, whenever the older woman needed a break. She even did a paper round on a borrowed bike for a while. But no matter how tough the work was, or how little she got paid, she saved every penny she could.

  But Dolly was worried about how much interest might have been added to the debt they still owed, now that she’d left Nifty Jack’s employ. The first time he’d appeared on the door step, she was nervous of even speaking to him.

  ‘You showed yourself to be handy with that shovel then,’ he drily remarked, a sly grin on his moonlike face.

  ‘I know how to put one to good use when needed.’

  ‘Well, I’m not one to bear a grudge.’

  ‘You’d pinch the flea off a dog if you thought you could make money out of making it dance.’

  ‘Less of your sharp wit, Dolly, or you’ll cut yourself with it one day. Though we do still have a score to settle, you and me, eh?’

  ‘I’ve no regular work and no money to pay you any extra, so you’ll just have to be patient.’

  ‘Nay lass, that won’t do. You’ll have to try harder. I’m not the patient sort.’

  Pride kept her from calling on Nathan Barker to ask a second time to be reinstated. Dolly even avoided going to chapel in case she should see him, which was unfortunate as that was often the best place to hear of any work going. And the flighty ones would turn up in their best bib and tucker, catch the boss’s eye and he’d think of them warmly the next time they came asking for employment. But Dolly wasn’t the flighty type and had no wish to beg.

  Deep down, she knew she was avoiding chapel and Nathan Barker because she couldn’t quite summon up the courage to confront him. She longed to ask if it was true about him and her mam but what if he said yes, that they had slept together? What would be the next question after that? Dolly quailed at the thought. It was one she didn’t dare to consider. There was no way she could go around asking all the men in Castlefield if they were her father, let alone the gaffer, the master of Barker’s Mill. She didn’t have the nerve. Besides, it was more than likely she was the daughter of the milkman, or the rag and bone man.

  Dolly begged her mother on several occasions to reveal the truth, but she absolutely refused to do so. Maisie insisted the past was over and done with, that other people were involved and it wasn’t her place to name names.

  ‘So you won’t tell me who my father is?’

  ‘No, Calvin brought you up, no matter what his failings. Let that be an end to the matter. There’s nothing to be gained by stirring things up again.’

  ‘But people will talk. They’ll say you were – are – a loose woman.’

  ‘Let them talk.’

  So Dolly very firmly put the matter out of her mind. What did it matter who her father was, so long as it wasn’t Nifty Jack? It took some weeks but eventually Dolly plucked up the courage to ask Nifty Jack how much the debt had been reduced by her working for him. He got out his book, sucked the end of his pencil and began making calculations.

  ‘Sad to say not very much! If you’d worked for me longer, it might’ve been better. As it is, what with the added interest while I was laid up – which we’ll call compensation for injuries sustained - I’d say you’ve probably increased what you owe me by about five pounds, sixteen shillings and sixpence.’
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  ‘What?’ Dolly gasped.

  ‘You surely didn’t think you’d get off scot-free, just running off like that over an innocent little cuddle.’

  ‘Innocent?’

  ‘We’ll call it a straight five quid. Does that sound fair? Just keep up with your regular payments and we can discuss the matter another time. There’s allus ways and means of settling.’ Then he gave one of his leering winks and waddled off to make someone else’s life a misery.

  * * *

  Dolly and Sam were married in September 1928, the moment she turned eighteen. She made herself a dress in white embroidered muslin, which showed off her neat figure to perfection and after a short ceremony at the chapel they invited a few friends in for tea. After the expense of the celebrations and buying a bed for them to share, they’d run out of money entirely. They’d moved in with Maisie, as agreed, and, six months later, were still living with her mother in Tully Court.

  Not that it mattered to Dolly, not one bit. They’d done their bit of courting on walks down by the canal, or in Seedley Park, spending as little money as possible. As the nights had drawn in and it became too cold to be out, Sam had come round to Tully Court on the pretext of doing the place up a bit, in preparation. They’d given the kitchen and bedrooms several coats of lime wash but managed to find plenty of time for a bit of canoodling in between. He’d sometimes got a bit carried away and asked for more than she was prepared to give, much as she might want to. Then they’d both end up panting like they’d run a mile but Dolly always managed to call a halt before matters got entirely out of hand.