A shrill whistle sounded and Ann heard the chugging of the steam train as it left the station on its way to Birmingham. One day she would be selling her gowns to the wealthy of that large town, she hoped.
Striding up Holyhead Road once more, Ann didn’t notice the young woman coming down King Street. The woman, however, had noticed Ann and virtually ran to the end of the street, where she waited and watched. As Ann turned off into Queen Street, Victoria Beckett followed quickly. Peeping round the corner, she watched Ann enter a house halfway along the street.
Victoria smiled. So, that’s where what’s-her-name lives! What a stroke of luck!
Turning away, Victoria desperately tried to recall the girl’s name, but still it eluded her. No matter, someone would know and eventually she would too.
While Ann had been busy at the draper’s, Maisie entered the snug at the Bell and heard the laughter. She smiled at the ribald comments being flung across the bar at ‘Lecherous Len’.
‘You know, Len, when we were girls, we had two windmills on our land, but we had to take one down,’ Ella said.
‘Really? How come?’ Len asked.
‘Because we found we didn’t have enough wind for two,’ Ella answered as she disguised a smirk.
‘That’s a shame,’ Len said. He was at a loss when all the girls burst out laughing at his gullibility. ‘What?’ he asked, causing another bout of laughter.
‘I don’t think he has a brain,’ Eve put in.
‘To be sure he does, but he keeps it in his trousers!’ Mary added.
He constantly strived to best the girls and every now and again they would allow him to win the round. However, today they were giving their all and Len never stood a chance, but he took it all in good spirit.
‘Ah, Maisie my wench, get your arse in ’ere and keep this lot under control,’ Len laughed.
‘Ain’t never gonna happen, Len,’ Maisie grinned.
‘Ain’t that the truth?!’ Len muttered as he poured out a gin for the newcomer.
‘Watcha know?’ Ella Hall asked.
‘Not much,’ Maisie replied.
Murmurs of agreement sounded around the small room until Gladys marched into the bar. Silence descended at the scornful look directed at her husband.
‘You can pour me a beer,’ Gladys said as she rounded the bar.
Len stared. Whatever was going on? Gladys in the bar when she should be in the kitchen?
‘What you doing, you old witch?’ Len asked with a twinkle in his eye.
‘I’ll give you old witch! I ain’t doin’ no more in that kitchen until I get me some ’elp. Now get that beer poured and make it bloody snappy!’ Gladys nodded at the cheer from the girls and settled herself on a chair amongst them.
Len shook his head as he poured out a beer for his wife. He began to mutter as he passed it over. ‘Bloody women! Customers will be wanting food and there won’t be any! What do I tell ’em – the wife’s gone on strike? Christ, there’ll be bloodshed!’
‘There’ll be blood shed ’ere and now if you don’t pour me another beer!’ Gladys said amid more cheers. Casting her husband a sour look, she downed half of her drink in one go and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Len heard the tapping on the counter in the main bar and sauntered away to serve the customer waiting, forgetting his wife’s request for more alcohol.
‘Afternoon, Len, a pint of your best please.’
‘Certainly, Mr Wyndham sir, coming right up. Nice to see you here again.’
The noise in the snug died down as each pair of ears strained to listen in on Len’s conversation.
Having not eaten all day, drinking the beer quickly was taking its toll on Gladys and she tottered a little drunkenly behind the bar in search of more.
‘I was wondering if you might know where I can find Ann Felton,’ Wyndham said.
‘Ar well…’ Len began.
Gladys cut off his sentence with, ‘Now then, Len, it ain’t fitting for you to be giving out folks’ addresses and all that! Sorry, Lord Wyndham, but you see as ’ow that would be inharproprihate.’
She heard the girls titter in the other room.
‘Of course, my sincere apologies,’ Richard said quietly.
The tap on the counter drew husband and wife back to the snug.
Gladys whispered, ‘Don’t you bloody dare tell ’im where Annie is at, you ’ear me?’ Len nodded. ‘If ’er wants to be found, ’er will be. Now you mark my words, Len.’
The landlord nodded again and sighed loudly, much to the amusement of the girls.
Maisie heard the man leave the bar and her thoughts whirled. So, he had come looking for her friend after all. Finishing her drink, she shouted a goodbye and left the Bell. Outside, she looked left and right, then she spotted him. Richard was walking slowly up the street. Maisie rushed to catch him up.
‘Lord Wyndham,’ she called.
The young man turned at her shout.
‘I ’ear you’re looking for our Annie?’ she asked. Seeing his nod, she went on, ‘Well now, if you want I can tell ’er.’
‘That would be wonderful, Miss…?’
‘Bancroft. Maisie Bancroft. Now then, I can tell ’er you was looking for ’er, but it’s up to ’er what she wants to do about that.’
‘Of course, Miss Bancroft. I’m staying at the Albert and she can find me there or leave a message at the desk.’ Richard’s excitement bubbled up.
‘She won’t be doing that, I can tell you straight off, but if she has a message for yer, you can always find me in the Bell.’
‘Marvellous. I’ll visit every day in the hope of some word from her. Thank you, Miss Bancroft, you are an angel in disguise.’ Richard kissed the back of her hand and walked away a distinctly happier man.
Looking down at her hand, then back to the man striding up the street, Maisie thought, Now why can’t I find someone like him?
Maisie made her way home, her mind on the horns of a dilemma. Should she tell Ann about overhearing Richard addressed as Lord Wyndham? Her friend knew he was a gentleman of means, but she had no idea of his true station in life. How would Ann react if she disclosed this knowledge? On the other hand, how would Ann feel about Maisie – and possibly the others – knowing but she was the last to hear? Would she feel shut out, thinking they didn’t trust her judgement enough to know?
Finally deciding to play it by ear when she got back, Maisie stepped up her pace.
She arrived home to see Ann surrounded by paper patterns and material.
‘Bloody hell! You don’t waste much time!’
Ann mumbled something before remembering she held pins between her lips. Removing the pins, she said, ‘I couldn’t wait, Maisie! The neighbours gave me their old newspapers and I went up to Williams’. You should see the materials in there! He has—’
‘Whoa! I’m sure it’s lovely, but I ’ave to get ready for work.’ Maisie smiled as Ann moved her things from the table.
‘I’ve made meat and potato pie for tea, sit down and I’ll get it out of the oven.’
As Ann bustled in the kitchen, Maisie shouted, ‘You’ll never guess who I saw today.’
Carrying through the food, Ann had a puzzled expression on her face.
‘Richard Wyndham!’ Maisie announced, helping herself to the pie.
‘Is that so?’ Ann flushed to the roots of her hair, a feeling of great excitement building inside her.
‘That is so! And guess what?’ Maisie blew on a forkful of the pie to cool it enough to eat. ‘He was looking fer you.’
‘Now how would you know that, Maisie Bancroft?’ Ann asked a little sarcastically.
‘’Cos he told me, that’s ’ow!’ Maisie nodded for emphasis.
‘Oh…’ Ann spluttered.
‘Oh indeed! He said as I can take ’im a message if you’ve a mind to give one.’ Maisie tucked into her food; drinking in the afternoon had given her an appetite.
‘A message? What sort of message? Why would I…?’ Ann was b
abbling, feeling all of a fluster.
‘Christ, girl! He wants to know where you live. He wants to see you again!’
‘Oh, I’m not sure…’ Ann dropped into the other chair at the table. ‘Maisie, you didn’t tell him where I was, did you?’
‘Course not! What do you take me for? I said as I could be the go-between. He said as I was an angel in disguise. So, you gonna send ’im a message then or what?’
‘No, I think not,’ Ann answered a little too quickly. Seeing her friend’s look, she added, ‘It’s not a good idea, Maisie. He’s a gentleman and has money and I’m a – well, a seamstress as of today, I suppose!’
Shaking her head, Maisie thought, If only you knew who he really is! Instead she said, ‘Let me know if yer change yer mind, ’cos if you don’t want ’im – I’ll ’ave ’im!’
The girls smiled at each other as they continued to enjoy their meal. Maisie was glad now she had kept the overheard information of his title to herself.
Ann’s thoughts swirled. Richard had come looking for her after all. He did want to see her again. However, what she’d told Maisie was true enough – he was a gentleman with money and power. He was a landowner and lived in Shropshire – so far away. She recalled him telling her these things on their evening out.
No, Ann felt her decision not to see Richard Wyndham again was the right one. They would be moving in different social circles because of the class divide. Ann was sure her friends liked Richard, but what of his family? How would they react when they discovered their son was seeing a lowly seamstress? Ann felt she knew precisely what would be said. It was really only the structure of society which would keep them apart, but that one obstacle would be impossible to overcome. She felt if she encouraged his attentions it could only end in disaster.
Nine
Victoria Beckett strolled down Union Street, her parasol shielding her head from the summer sun. As she passed by Williams’ Drapery, she caught sight of a sign in the window: Help wanted. Apply within.
Stepping into the shop, she folded her parasol and strode to the counter. A smiling Mr Williams greeted her.
‘I have come about the sign in the window,’ Victoria said sharply.
Mr Williams visibly paled.
‘I would like the position,’ Victoria added.
Mr Williams gulped. ‘I see,’ he croaked. Then clearing his throat, he gathered his courage and said, ‘Miss Beckett…’ Seeing her eyebrows raise, he plunged on, ‘Yes, I know who you are and I know your circumstances as well as your temper. Now, if I were to offer you the position of sales assistant in my shop, I would need your guarantee that my customers would be treated with respect and courtesy.’ Knowing there were many out of work, Mr Williams could see the kudos of having a lady serving his customers. However, he still prayed she would turn around and leave. Victoria’s lowered eyebrows shot up again as he continued, ‘Your assurance, Miss Beckett. Could you be respectful to my customers? Could you hold that vile temper of yours?’ He was trying his level best to put her off by accentuating the fact that her reputation as a virago was well known.
Nodding once, Victoria gritted her teeth.
Mr Williams’ heart sank. He should have told her outright that he didn’t want her here, but it was too late now. Taking a deep breath and thinking of the prestige of having a lady assistant he said, ‘Very well, I will take you on a month’s trial. If, during that time, I receive one complaint regarding your behaviour, you will be out on your ear. Do we understand each other?’ Another nod. ‘Then you may come in tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp.’
‘Thank you,’ Victoria said grudgingly, then she turned on her heel and walked out.
Mr Williams sighed heavily. What had he done? Had he just made the biggest mistake of his life? Only time would tell. If she proved herself unworthy of the position, at least he could get rid of her quickly. One thing was for sure, he was dreading the following day.
Victoria strolled back to her little room in the hotel, feeling very pleased with herself. Well! She had secured herself rather a nice position in the draper’s shop. That would be one in the eye for her father, who would no doubt be informed before long. News travelled fast in Wednesbury, seeing as people were virtually living on top of one another. But eight o’clock in the morning! As far as Victoria was concerned that was still the middle of the night! She was far more accustomed to rising at ten and having a leisurely breakfast in bed. What she hadn’t asked was what time the shop closed and – more importantly – what the salary would be.
Once more in her room, Victoria rummaged through her trunk to find something suitable to wear to her first ever day at work.
She had a restless night with thoughts of having to earn herself a wage and when she rose the following morning she was in a foul temper.
The shop was already open when a bleary eyed Victoria Beckett arrived. Mr Williams greeted her warily and immediately set about showing her the ropes. The buttons were all in small wooden boxes set in a large frame, each box marked with the price. Every bolt of cloth had a ticket attached to the end and was priced by the yard. Needles, pins, threads, pin cushions and thimbles – all in separate tiny drawers and labelled accordingly. In the next room was a massive counter, along which ran a metal tape measure attached to the edge. Sharp scissors sat at the end of the counter. On another table was a pile of brown wrapping paper and a huge ball of string on a metal swivel stick.
Mr Williams left Victoria to acquaint herself with his shop, saying he would be in the back room and she should ask for help if she needed it.
The monstrous great till in the shop had large press-down buttons which showed the numbers in the little window at the top. When she was sure the amount charged was correct, Victoria could turn the big handle on the side of the till and the money drawer would be released. Victoria felt sure she could manage that and wandered around for a while. The tinkling of the doorbell announced a customer had arrived and Victoria rushed to the counter.
An older woman in a shabby skirt and blouse stood with arms folded across her chest. Victoria noticed the frayed hem of her skirt stopping just short of dirty old boots. The woman waited; Victoria waited. Unsure of what to do next it was Victoria who spoke first. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ar, I’m sure yer can,’ the woman replied.
‘With what?’
‘Buttons,’ came the answer.
Victoria’s temper flared at the lack of platitudes, but she held on to it. This was how Black Country people spoke. They took an age to say very little, going ‘round the houses’ before coming to the point.
‘What colour?’ Victoria asked.
‘Black.’
Drawing a breath, Victoria asked, ‘How many?’
‘One.’
‘One? Surely it would make sense to buy two or even four?’ Victoria was aghast.
‘You payin’?’ the woman asked with a sickly smile.
Victoria shook her head. The woman nodded once.
‘One it is then.’ Victoria pulled open a box drawer of black buttons and lifted one out. Placing it on the counter, she waited.
‘Too small.’ The woman eyed the sales girl.
Victoria picked up the button and returned it to the box.
Four times, she was sent to the buttons boxes before the woman was satisfied. With another nod, the woman paid her money and stomped out without a thank you being said.
Victoria fumed inwardly. Why couldn’t the woman have asked for that size in the first place? If this was how her day was going to be, Victoria could see herself sacked by the end of it.
Hiding behind the door to the other room, Mr Williams smiled. Evidently the customer had recognised Victoria and made it her business to run the girl ragged. With a little luck, Victoria Beckett would be gone for good very soon. He could already guess it was taking all her energy to hold that fiery temper of hers. Tittering to himself, he went into the kitchen at the back of the shop to make a cup of tea. He couldn’t wait to se
e how the rest of the day would pan out.
It was eight o’clock in the evening before Mr Williams let her go and Victoria dragged herself wearily back to the hotel, stopping only once at a shop, where she bought a meat pie. Eating as she walked was something she never thought to do, but she was too tired to care. She had survived her first day at work without being sacked.
In her room at last, she stripped off her clothes, dragged on a nightgown and fell into bed thoroughly exhausted. Her last thought before sleep took her was, Dear God, please let tomorrow be better!
The following day was not better for Victoria, nor was the rest of the week. By Sunday she was too tired to rise from her bed, so she stayed there and slept the day away. She prayed every night that her stamina would improve and she wouldn’t feel so worn out. If she felt this tired serving in a shop, what was it like for men and women working in factories? The men who worked the furnaces and women nail making – no wonder people died so young – they worked themselves to death!
The only thing that cheered her was she had earned her first wages. At last she had money of her own; she could spend it on whatever she wanted. Then she realised she would have to pay for the hotel again in just a couple of weeks and she had to eat in the meantime. There would be precious little left of her money to spend on luxuries. She needed to save a little each week and also find somewhere cheaper to live.
Looking around her room, Victoria wondered if there was anywhere in the world cheaper than this fleapit. For the moment, however, she was doing all right – she was surviving, and quite well too.
Victoria’s stamina did indeed improve and she was not nearly so tired by the end of the following week. Sunday afternoon was warm and bright and she decided to take a walk alongside the canal. Turning into Queen Street, she walked its length trying to remember which house that girl – Alice – Amelia – whoever she was, had turned into. Looking into each window as she passed, she was none the wiser by the time she reached the end of the street.
Crossing the Holyhead Road, she sauntered past St James’ Church and on into Portway Road. Cutting down into Portway Lane she crossed over the bridge where the towpath lay. She took a gentle stroll and watched the narrowboats as they chugged lazily along. People on the boats waved and Victoria found herself waving back, a smile on her lips. Goodness, was she in danger of actually becoming a nice person? Her smile widened as she enjoyed the warm breeze that caressed her skin. This was one part of Wednesbury that she liked. Away from the grime-laden buildings it was like being in the countryside.
Fallen Women Page 7