Putting on the Style

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Putting on the Style Page 8

by Freda Lightfoot


  It was a forlorn hope.

  If she thought the lecture the night before had been bad, there was worse waiting for her when she came downstairs the following morning.

  Seated at the kitchen table was the angular figure of Miss Rogers, her long narrow face pinched into lines of disapproval, and at the open front door stood a large black car and a very official looking driver.

  ‘What’s going on? Mam, what’s happening?’

  It was Miss Rogers who answered while Alice just sat there, saying nothing. ‘Your poor mother can no longer cope with your waywardness, Dena. We’re taking you into care.’

  Dena felt as if she’d slipped into a nightmare. The social worker instructed her to eat up her breakfast then pack one small bag with the barest essentials and perhaps one or two of her favourite books. Everything else, she assured her, would be provided.

  Hunger deserting her upon the instant, Dena demanded an explanation. ‘I don’t understand. Where am I going? Where are you taking me? I’ve done nothing. Mam, tell them I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not wayward, am I?’

  ‘Your mother isn’t well enough to bring you up properly. She’s sick, so we will take her place from now on. You will be raised by the state.’

  Dena did not understand a word the woman was saying but it soon became clear that after months of never having set foot outside her own home, Alice had taken the slip of paper with Miss Roger’s telephone number on it from the dresser drawer, gone to the telephone box on the corner and called her.

  It felt like a betrayal.

  Dena was near to tears but determined not to cry. She was worn out with crying. ‘I won’t go! You’re not taking me nowhere. I can raise myself, ta very much.’

  ‘No, indeed you can’t.’

  ‘I’ve been managing well enough up to now,’ Dena protested.

  Miss Rogers cast her a sad look. ‘No you haven’t, Dena. You haven’t been managing very well at all. Look at you, thin and pasty-faced, and exhausted. And that’s another bruise on your face, isn’t it? Looks nasty. It’s all right, don’t worry. You’ll like this place. You’ll get plenty of good food, which will put some flesh on those skinny bones of yours, and they’ll provide you with an excellent education. After that, they’ll even help to find you employment. What more could you ask for?’

  Dena looked at the social worker in stunned disbelief. What more could she ask for? Her own home, of course. Her mam! Her friends! Kenny! Were all of these to be taken away from her?

  She ran to her mother and fell to her knees before her. ‘Is this because of last night? Oh, I’m sorry Mam, I am really. It won’t happen again, I swear it! Don’t send me away. Please!’

  Alice turned her face away to stare blankly into the fire.

  Dena could feel panic rising inside of her. Her mother was not the demonstrative sort, never had been much of a one for cuddles or kisses, not at all the warm, loving parent of story books, but she was still her mam. Even if Pete had been her favourite Dena had always been quite certain that Alice cared about her, in her own rough and ready way. Surely her criticisms and constant scolding were only Mam’s way of showing that her only daughter was important to her. It couldn’t simply be that her own standards were all that mattered, could it?

  ‘Look at me Mam, please look at me. Tell them it’s all right, that we have these little spats but then get over them. I’m your daughter!’

  Alice did look at her then and her lips curled with distaste as she spat out the words. ‘Not any more you’re not!’

  They had to drag her sobbing from her mother’s knee and push her into the car. Dena’s last view of Barber’s Court as they drove away was of old Mrs Emmett standing at her front door with one hand clapped over her mouth in shock. They hadn’t even remembered to pack her a bag, or collect up any of her favourite things. Dena felt in that moment entirely abandoned and bereft, as if she possessed nothing but the clothes on her back, and not a soul in the world cared about her. Not even her own mother.

  Chapter Ten

  They took Dena to a large Victorian mansion set in the depths of the country where she could smell cows and green grass. Miss Rogers informed her that it was called Ivy Bank and run by Wesleyan Methodists so she must be on her best behaviour at all times. Right from the start Dena knew that she would hate it.

  Even the smell of the place was dreadful: stale cabbage and vomit mixed with pig muck. Dena preferred traffic fumes and the noise of the city.

  And that was another thing. She hated the silence, but then again the raucous sound of the rooks cawing in the trees that overhung the yard seemed somehow sinister and kept her awake that first night, and for several nights following.

  At first she was put in something like a cow shed, which they called the sanatorium, for two whole weeks. A very fierce looking woman in a starched grey long-sleeved dress and cap, who insisted she be addressed as Matron, explained that Dena was now in quarantine to make sure that she had no infectious diseases.

  There was nothing to do in the sanatorium, no entertainment save for a few worthy books and Dena endured it in silence, and largely alone as Matron apparently had far more important matters to deal with.

  But Dena had come to a decision that enough was enough. There would be no more tears, not a single drop. A vain hope, perhaps, at Ivy Bank, but from now on no matter what life threw at her she was determined to cope, and never again expect help from anyone.

  Who could she trust, after all, if not her own mother? If Alice could not be relied upon to support her, then there was no one.

  When Saturday came round and Dena did not appear Belle was at first annoyed and then curious. The girl had sometimes been late but never shied off work altogether. She needed the money too much. Belle decided to ask around. No doubt Winnie would have heard something.

  Several days later Barry Holmes was carefully stacking his best oranges to the front of his stall when Belle Garside accosted him.

  ‘Have you seen Dena Dobson lately? She didn’t turn up for work last Saturday.’

  Barry shook his head. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You always seem friendly enough with her, as you were with that brother of hers, young Pete. He was one of your boys, wasn’t he?’ Belle’s tone was light although there was an edge to her sweetness. ‘I assumed you still took an interest.’

  ‘Aye, I do, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Rumour has it that she’s been taken into care and I wondered if it were true.’

  Barry looked concerned as he moved a slightly scarred orange to the back of the pile. ‘I hadn’t heard but I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it. Nobody ever tells me anything.’ Belle turned to go then hesitated, as if she’d just had a thought. Picking up the orange she began rolling it in the palm of her hand. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider proposing me for the new committee at the next AGM?’

  Barry Looked at her. ‘I don’t suppose I would.’

  Belle smiled at him, and there was little humour in it. ‘No, I didn’t think you would,’ and dropped the orange on to the floor. A puff of green powder came out. ‘Dear me, not quite so fresh as it should be then?’

  It was indeed Winnie Watkins who finally confirmed that the dreadful news was true, telling Belle that she’d got this information directly from Alice only this morning when she came into the market hall to buy thread.

  ‘Not that it’s any of my business, but would you believe that woman hasn’t set foot outside the door since their Pete was drowned. Now that she no longer has Dena to wait on her hand, foot and finger, she’s out and about every day all dolled up like a dog’s dinner.’

  Belle shook her head in disbelief. ‘Selfish cow!’

  ‘It’s that young lass I feel sorry for. Sweet on your Kenny, apparently, and Alice didn’t approve of them walking out together so called in the Social, claiming her daughter was beyond parental control.’ Nor did Winnie approve of Kenny Garside. She was very fond of Dena and priva
tely considered Kenny nowhere near good enough for her, so she revelled in this opportunity to put some of the blame for the tragedy on Belle’s lap. ‘What sort of a world is it when a mother gives her own child away rather than take responsibility for her behaviour?’

  Belle bristled. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing our Kenny’s done, so you can take that disapproving look off your face, Winnie Watkins.’

  ‘I never said it was,’ said Winnie primly, her face now carefully devoid of expression. It was none of her business after all.

  Belle went straight to her son where he was sulkily stacking plates in the kitchen, having lost his job at the engineering plant just because he turned up late for work one morning. A poor show in Kenny’s opinion that they made no allowance for youth or a hangover. ‘What you been doing to the Dobson girl?’

  Kenny jerked as if shot. ‘Nowt!’

  She clipped him round the ear. ‘Don’t lie to me, son. I’ll find out, so help me. If you’ve been interfering with that young lass . . .’

  ‘Mam, I haven’t, I swear it. I haven’t touched her, not much anyway. Why would I?’ Kenny whined, smearing his face with soap suds as he held his burning hot ear.

  ‘Aye, why would you, great soft lump that you are? You wouldn’t know what to do with the girl, not even if she drew you a picture. I said as much to Winnie only this morning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Kenny protested, feeling his manhood was being challenged.

  ‘Young stud are you now?’

  ‘Let it go, Mam,’ Carl warned. ‘She’s no great loss.’

  Belle drew in a calming breath as she contemplated her two boys, then overcome with a burst of maternal emotion, clasped Kenny to her breast as if he were five years old and not fifteen. ‘I’m sorry for landing you one, love, only that Winnie Watkins got me proper narked. Course, you’ve more sense than to do anything to harm the silly lass, so you can stop looking sorry for yourself. It’s that poor girl you should pity. She’s been taken away, shopped by that hysterical mother of hers.’ Belle gently patted her son’s soapy cheek. ‘I knew you’d never lift a finger to hurt anyone, would you Kenny love?’

  Kenny glowed beneath this uncharacteristic show of approbation, might well have tried to take advantage of it but was so stunned by the news that he stopped thinking about himself for several long seconds. Dena taken into care, this was awful! Dreadful! Not what he’d planned at all. Only when Carl kicked his ankle did he answer his mother’s question. ‘No, Mam, I wouldn’t. I’d never hurt a living soul.’

  Belle sashayed off to flirt with Sam Beckett who’d come in search of his usual sausage sandwich, and Kenny turned on his brother, venom hissing out on a blast of beer tainted breath. ‘This is all your fault! You’ve done this. You must have told on us. How would she have known about us otherwise?’

  Carl let out a snort of amusement. ‘I reckon all the market knew, if not half the city of Manchester, that you were having it off with her.’

  ‘I wasn’t having it off.’

  Carl chortled all the more, pleased to have riled his younger brother. ‘Whether or not you’ve got your leg over yet, you’re hot gossip round here. And she isn’t so innocent and lily-white either.’

  Without pausing for thought, Kenny took a swing at him, spitting with fury. ‘Don’t you insult my girl. She isn’t like that!’

  Caught off balance, Carl’s head jerked back as he took the full force of the blow. ‘Oh, but she is. And she’s also a little thief.’

  ‘She is not!’

  Kenny would have shoved him aside, but, more prepared this time, Carl easily prevented his escape by pushing him up against the greasy kitchen wall, pinning him there like a fly on sticky paper.

  There was a long drawn out moment of silence while both brothers breathed hard and considered their options, Kenny inwardly shaking with fear at what Carl might do next. His brother could easily break his neck with one flick of that powerful wrist. When it seemed as if this part of his anatomy was to remain safe, for now at least, he said on a note of bravado, ‘We’ll settle this on Friday night at the club, right? Once and for all. I’ll not have you insult Dena. She’s my girl.’

  Carl’s smile chilled him to his very soul. ‘You’re on. I’ll shall take great pleasure in cutting you down to size, little brother. As you say, once and for all.’

  When the quarantine was over, Dena was moved to the main house and put in a cavernous freezing cold room, called a dormitory, with eleven other girls, in the charge of a housemother.

  She was a huge woman built like a tank, or a female version of Desperate Dan from the Beano comic. The advantage of this was that the girls could hear her approach from some distance away, thumping along the corridor or blundering up the stairs. Her real name was Dorothy Carter but was known to the girls as Carthorse.

  ‘This is where you keep all your possessions, Dena Dobson, in your own personal locker. And see that you keep it tidy.’

  This amused Dena since she had nothing to put in the locker save for the clothes they’d given her. She’d already tried explaining to Matron that she’d been given no chance to bring any of her own things with her, and had asked if they could perhaps be sent on.

  Matron had merely sniffed disapprovingly and told her she would have no further need of such trifles and a full uniform would be provided. Now Dena was being taken up to a huge room lined with cupboards in which were kept piles of clothing. The faint musty smell that emanated from them, when the cupboard doors were opened, clearly indicated that these were other folks’ cast-offs. Since Dena had never owned anything new in her entire life, this didn’t trouble her in the slightest.

  She was presented with two pale blue blouses, a darker blue gymslip made out of stiff calico, black tie shoes and short white socks, also an overall for rough work, and an apron for cooking. The undergarments were the strangest of all with two pairs of flannel knickers in a washed out blue that came nearly to her knees; two vests and a liberty bodice with suspenders that buttoned on to long black woollen stockings. The only touch of colourful frivolity was a pink flannel petticoat decorated with cross-stitch in a pale blue thread.

  Dena learned later that the clothes were made in the sewing room by the girls themselves, although you’d be very fortunate indeed to be given anything new. These were reserved for the prefects and the most favoured. Dena looked forward to discovering who had been daring enough to embroider the hem with cross-stitch.

  She was also provided with a wash bag in which was placed a toothbrush and toothpaste, tablet of soap, comb and a face cloth. This had to be hung on a special hook by her locker. Last of all came two nightdresses, also in warm pink flannel, a dressing gown, slippers, and a pair of wellingtons for working in the garden.

  The only item she possessed in all the world that was entirely hers was the locket that Kenny had given her. To keep it safe and out of sight of the other girls, she slipped it inside the bible that Carthorse presented her with, and stowed it away in her locker. Surely it would be quite safe there.

  Oh, Kenny, she thought. I’m missing you so much already.

  Carl presaged the fight by taking great pleasure in telling Kenny all about the little tricks with the tips the wonderful Dena got up to when she thought folk weren’t watching. ‘Except that I was watching, and saw it all.’

  Kenny refused to believe a word of it. She was, in his eyes, an angel from heaven who could do no wrong, certainly wasn’t capable of stealing from anyone, least of all her employer. ‘I’ll kill you if you say anything different,’ he roared.

  Carl snorted his derision. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  Barry Holmes’s job was to ensure that the fight was carried out strictly according to Queensbury rules. ‘Right lads, we’ll have a fair fight, no hitting below the belt and you stop when I say so.’

  Despite his challenge Carl was wary of hurting his brother and the fight began slowly with the pair of them dancing about the ring, neither making any move to be the first t
o come in. Then Kenny sprang forward, leading from the shoulder with a good straight jab right in the ribs, finding his range nicely. After two or three more accurately aimed punches, Carl realised that if this was going to be a serious fight, he’d better tighten up and take it seriously.

  Kenny, ever light on his feet, managed to avoid most of Carl’s jabs in the first round, and even got in a few more of his own. In the second he began to tire and Carl got in with one or two cross punches, with Kenny only managing to land one right hook that had little power in it. Then before Kenny could get into his stride in the third, Carl seemed to grow bored with the whole idea, brought in a left uppercut and knocked him out cold.

  He stood back to allow Barry to dash over and fuss about with bucket and sponge, worrying that perhaps he might have been a bit hard on him. He was his brother after all. Kenny had a cut over one eye and a split lip but he was starting to come round already, so not too badly hurt perhaps.

  Carl watched impassively as Barry bore Kenny off to his own house for more treatment before taking him on home. For all he’d been reluctant to hurt the lad, he felt a deep sadness that it should come to this, the pair of them fighting instead of just enjoying a bit of sparring, as they’d used to.

  Kenny had been a nice enough kid when he was young, always cheerful and happy, but then for no reason anyone could quite explain, he’d changed. Almost overnight he’d become every bit as much of a trouble-maker as young Pete Dobson, whom he claimed to despise for that very reason.

  Of course there’d been a lot going on around that time, yet another man walking out on their mam, but from the age of about nine Kenny was either always up to mischief or else moody and uncooperative. He would throw tantrums, get into fights, tried his hand at shoplifting from Woolworths, or would simply sit for hours with his hands over his head refusing to speak to anyone. His mam had been at her wit’s end at times over his behaviour.

 

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