‘Never mind, cherub, you can tell me later.’ Barry was half way out of the door, perhaps nervous of Carl’s temper. ‘Ta ra, chuck. Call me again anytime you need me.’
‘I will, Barry, don’t worry. I won’t be bullied by this ape,’ and watched in dismay as her old friend beat a hasty retreat.
Dena was struggling to keep her temper while she cuddled and soothed her whimpering, frightened child, nevertheless she turned on Carl, her voice seething with rage.
‘How dare you? How dare you march in here and start throwing your weight about, manhandling my child! Who the hell do you think you are? Get out! Get out now!’
‘Dena, take my advice and . . .’
‘I’m not taking any advice from you. I make it a policy never to listen to bullies. The fact that you’ve suddenly turned against Barry is your problem, not mine. He’s like a father to me and I trust him implicitly. Now please leave before I call the police.’
‘Dena, I warn you . . .’
‘I mean it. Get out!’
The sound of the door slamming echoed for several moments long after he’d gone. After which, Dena burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was one Tuesday afternoon in early March when Dena was at a loose end that she took it into her head to go round to Winnie’s house. She hadn’t forgotten that her employer had once offered to lend her a sewing machine and Dena was keen to follow up her dream of making skirts to sell on the stall.
Winnie had kept promising that Donald would carry the machine in for her since it was a Singer & Jones Electric table top model and not one of the old-fashioned treadle variety, but it had never materialised. Dena wished she could afford to buy one of her own but they cost almost ten pounds, so on this lovely sunny day with a hint of spring in the air, she had finally grown tired of waiting.
Her fingers were itching to be busy sewing, and Dena so longed to make a new dress for herself. She rather hoped that if Donald was home he would offer to carry it to the bedsit for her, then she could get on with the work as there was marginally more space in her single room than behind the crowded fabric stall.
Winnie lived at the opposite end of Champion Street, just before it joined the junction of Grove Street and, as she approached, it occurred to Dena that in all the time she’d worked for Winnie, she’d never been invited to visit.
Perhaps she should have asked first, but in this part of Manchester folk popped in and out of each other’s houses all the time, so it shouldn’t really matter.
As she walked, Dena admired the goods on sale, sometimes stopping to admire a range of military buttons and medals displayed in little boxed frames, a selection of records in their brown paper sleeves, postcards and interesting bits of bric-a-brac, or pausing to try on a pair of boots or feel the quality of a pair of denim jeans. There was one stall festooned with lace and ribbons which always entranced her, and another cleverly draped in crochet and knitting patterns, the wool itself stacked high in great plastic boxes.
She could never resist the smell of freshly baked pies, the hot potato cart, or bacon butties from Belle’s café, all mingling with the newly cut grass in the churchyard and the spring vegetables on Barry’s market stall.
‘Hiya, Barry,’ she called out as she trundled past with the big pram, Trudy sitting up now in her little pink harness and new white matinee jacket and bonnet that Dena had knitted herself. She looked a picture with her rosy cheeks, blonde curls and lovely blue eyes.
‘Hiya, chuck. Take care,’ he called back, then rolled his eyes as he went back to serving what was clearly an awkward customer. ‘No love, you don’t have to buy the whole cabbage, you can buy half, or a quarter, just one leaf if you’ve a mind.’
Dena smiled to herself as the woman flounced off without buying a single thing. Barry could sometimes be a bit too sharp and sarcastic for his own good. But at least he still spoke to her, despite that fracas with Carl some weeks before. She’d never quite got to the bottom of what had enraged Carl that night. She’d always thought him quite friendly with Barry, them being members of the same boxing club, but something had obviously put his back up. Dena rather assumed it must have been her fault. Something to do with her treatment of Kenny, perhaps, that had inflamed his temper, and she really couldn’t help that.
She’d grown accustomed to people gossiping and behaving oddly towards her. Few on the market spoke to her these days. Backs would turn, or people would pretend not to have heard when she called out to them. Mostly she didn’t even bother doing that any more, and would just walk on by, ignoring them as plainly as they ignored her.
Dena didn’t mind so much for herself, but inside was growing a small fear as to how they might treat Trudy when she started to play out with the other children. Would they give her child the cold shoulder too?
There were one or two exceptions. Jolly Mr Ramsay, who looked just as you’d expect a butcher to look, all big and ruddy cheeked, with a fat belly swathed in a large blood-stained apron. His wife was very much the lean to his fat and far too prim and proper for her own good. She always walked away on some urgent business or other whenever Dena came near to the stall, leaving her husband to serve her. Mr Ramsay’s florid cheeks would grow even redder and he’d slip her an extra sausage or a bit of stewing beef to make up for his wife’s coldness.
‘Cook it slow in a bit of Oxo, and it’ll taste right good.’
The Bertalone family on the ice cream stall just inside the market hall had likewise remained friendly throughout. They were Italian and knew all about how difficult it was to settle when folk were suspicious of you.
And right at the back of the outside stalls, just by the rear door of the market hall stood Carl’s household goods stall. He’d made a fine display, one to be proud of, with kettles and pans hanging from hooks across the top of it, sets of cutlery, mops and buckets, Ewebank carpet sweepers, Prestige pressure cookers and kitchen products and devices of all descriptions. Dena might like to have browsed among this treasure trove herself but she could hear him chatting with a customer, explaining how to use a roasting spit just like Philip Harben, the television cook. And although she was quite certain that he saw her, he didn’t speak or wave, didn’t even acknowledge her presence.
He really was the rudest man she knew. Dena stuck her chin in the air and walked on by.
Thank goodness for dear old Winnie, who’d warmed considerably from her earlier frostiness and now happily allowed Dena to serve customers, as well as allow her to have her illegitimate baby on proud display for all to see. A rare woman was Winnie, and always full of surprises.
Today, Dena was to discover that this was more true than she’d bargained for.
There was no answer to her knock, just the sound of a dog barking. Dena tried again to no avail, gave up and went back to the market hall where Winnie was busy serving a customer. Now that she’d fixed the idea in her head to start sewing today, she didn’t want to let it go.
‘What’s this, wanting to work on your day off? Glutton for punishment, eh? Here, mind the stall a sec while I put the kettle on. I’m dying for a cuppa.’
So Dena put the brake on the pram and served one or two customers, measuring out curtain net for one, and a length of blue poplin for another. When all was quiet again she sat with Winnie on an upturned box and sipped her tea. ‘I’ve just been round to yours.’
‘What?’ Winnie was so startled she almost dropped her mug and had to dab at the spill of tea down the front of her blue cardigan. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Sorry, but since Donald has kept forgetting to bring in the sewing machine, I thought I’d pop round and get it. Balance it on the pram if he was too busy to carry it home for me, only I’m dying to get going. I’ve made some sketches of circular skirts, some with flowers and poodles in appliqué. I got the idea from one of Abe’s old fashion mags, and I’m sure I can make them okay, and that they’d sell well.’
Winnie had gone all pink cheeked. ‘You’d no right! N
o right at all.’
Dena was at once contrite, surprised that her friend was more concerned about her calling at the house than listening to details of her designs. ‘I’m sorry. Is he ill or something? I never thought. He didn’t answer the door. Your dog was barking and I assumed there was no one in.’
‘I don’t have a dog. That would be Molly Poulson’s next door.’
‘Oh, well, shall I call again later? Would that be more convenient?
‘No, it won’t! I mean, I’ll bring the flaming machine in for you tomorrow.’
‘Oh, right, sorry to be a nuisance. I could collect it if you prefer. I don’t mind how early it is.’
‘I’ve said I’ll fetch it, haven’t I?’
A short, tight silence. ‘I’d best get going then.’ Dena set down her mug of tea unfinished, took off the brake of the battered old pram and wheeled Trudy away, mystified by Winnie’s sudden coldness. Just when she thought she’d been accepted, here was yet another rebuff.
‘Here you are, one sewing machine. I’ve fetched it in myself since Donald isn’t feeling too good.’ Winnie called out as she came staggering into the market hall the following morning, weighed down with the thing and Dena rushed to help. It was raining and Winnie was soaked to the skin despite the old mackintosh she had slung over her shoulders.
‘You should’ve said. I would’ve come round and helped you to carry it.’ Dena was filled with guilt. ‘Look, if your Donald isn’t feeling too good, why don’t you take the day off so’s you can see to him. I don’t mind doing a bit extra.’
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘But you don’t want to leave him on his own all day if he’s ill. What’s wrong, is it ‘flu or something more serious?’
Winnie busied herself at the back of the stall hanging up her mack, then started pulling swatches of fabric out of her samples book, folding them up and putting them back again. ‘He’s never been the same since the war.’
‘I see. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be with him?’ Dena’s soft heart went out towards her friend. How awful it must be to nurse a wounded husband year in and year out. And he must be a bit of tyrant since she always had to ask his permission for every little thing. ‘I don’t want paying for the extra hours. I’ll do it gladly. I could get going on the machine as I doubt we’ll be busy on a wet day like this.’
‘No, I’ve already said, there’s no need for me to stop at home all day,’ Winnie snapped.
‘But . . .’
‘I’ve said there’s no need!’
Dena realised it was pointless to press the matter further but she sensed a problem. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, but there was most definitely a problem. She’d never met Donald personally, couldn’t actually remember seeing him out and about, but then why would she, if he was an invalid? Later, when she spotted Barry packing up his boxes at the end of another wet day, she went over to help as she often did, and asked him.
‘Do you know Donald?’
He looked at her, eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Donald Watkins?’
Dena picked up a box of oranges and helpfully loaded it into the back of his van. ‘Yes. Winnie’s husband. He seems to be ill. I called the other day and she was most upset about it. Now she’s saying he’s not well, that he’s never been the same since the war. Yet she wouldn’t take the day off to look after him. It’s a puzzle because I always thought she adored him. She never stops talking about him.’
Barry paused in his labours and gave Dena a sad look. ‘Well there’s not much point, is there? Donald flew Hurricanes during the Battle of Britain and went down over Northern France. Been missing presumed dead for over fifteen years.’
‘Oh, my goodness, that’s terrible! But why . . ?’
Barry shook his head. ‘Winnie can’t bring herself to accept it, I suppose. She waited years for news, hoping against hope that he’d come home one day, but he never did. Many did return so it seemed reasonable enough at the time. Then she created this fiction that her husband had come home wounded and was in need of special care. He became someone she could talk about, someone at home who cared about her and what she does. And someone to take the blame whenever she didn’t know what to do or how to cope with life. Most people are aware of the truth, but go along with the tale for Winnie’s sake. She’s lonely, that’s all.’
Dena was nearly in tears by the time he’d finished. ‘Oh, poor Winnie. How awful! I wish I could help. I wish there was something I could do.’
Barry put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You are helping, just by being there. Be patient with her though. And with her memories of Donald. They were a lovely young couple once, and madly in love, but they didn’t have a good war. Winnie just can’t seem to let him go.’
Dena set to work sewing the skirts, saying nothing to her employer about what she’d discovered. And when, a day or two later Winnie cheerily told her that Donald was feeling much better, Dena said, ‘Oh good, I’m so pleased. Nothing worse than a bad dose of ‘flu, is there?’
‘He always did have a bad chest, my Donald.’
‘Then you must take especially good care of him.’
‘Oh, I do,’ Winnie assured her. ‘I do.’ Her voice faded slightly and her gaze slipped away into the middle distance and then she abruptly changed the subject. ‘Eeh, I’d best get on with unpacking this net curtaining. We don’t want no slacking round here, not even from the boss lady, eh?’
Nothing more was said on the subject, and Dena got on with her sewing with increased diligence.
Chapter Thirty
Britain had moved on from the austerity of the 1940s and early 1950s, and a new prosperity was emerging. What was even more exciting was that even young people, teenagers as they were now called, were developing a fashion style of their own. It was with this group in mind that Dena started to draw up her designs.
She went round the Manchester warehouses and bought a few remnants of polished cotton and seersucker to practise on. She also bought a couple of yards of buckram to stiffen the waistband, or to make into fashionably wide belts.
She’d seen pictures of skirts with poodle designs, the Eiffel tower, flowers and tropical palms. Dena decided on daisies for her own design and ran up a circular skirt in no time, then set about fashioning petal shapes from a piece of bright yellow felt which she stuck close to the hem to form a large daisy, adding a long green stem that ran right up to the waistband. She would have loved to make an entire skirt out of felt but the fabric was expensive and she needed to prove herself first.
She stayed up half the night finishing three of these skirts in different colours, thankful that Trudy was sleeping well at the moment.
The next morning Dena pressed the completed garments and took them in to the market to show her employer.
‘By heck, that’s a bobby-dazzler,’ was Winnie’s instant reaction when Dena held up the first skirt, a pale blue finished with a yellow daisy.
‘I have another here in pink with a white daisy, and one in green and yellow. What do you think? Could we hang them up and see if they sell?’
‘We certainly could.’ Winnie was examining the workmanship. ‘You’re not bad, not bad at all. Finished off well and this zip is sewn in really neat. Who taught you?’
‘Miss Stanford, a teacher at the home.’
Winnie gave her a wry smile. ‘Some good come out of it then?’
They sold the skirts by lunch-time and before they closed for the day had taken orders for two more.
‘You’ve started a craze. Daisy skirts. You’d best get off home and start sewing, lass. Here, take some of this blue cotton sateen, and how about the cabbage rose print? It’s so pretty. Would that be suitable?’
Dena shook her head. ‘Not for this design, I need plain colours. These gingham checks might do though. I could bind the hem with the same colour as the daisy. Maybe I shall make an orange daisy, or a pink one. Why not?’
‘Why not indeed? I can see what you’re going to be
up to on your days off. Here, don’t forget your money. You bought that fabric so it’s all yours, and something for the extra hours. As for using fabric from the stall, we’ll have to come to some arrangement. I’ll have a word with Donald, see what hourly rate you should be on for the sewing.’
‘And designing. Cutting out and sticking the daisy on is the fiddly part. I want to try other designs too. Bluebells, cats, who knows?’
‘Aye, don’t worry. He isn’t a mean man, he’ll take all of that into account. But he’s in charge of finance in our household.’
‘Yes,’ said Dena quietly. ‘I know.’
Dena was busy at her sewing machine when Kenny called round a day or two later, pushing his way in the minute she opened the door.
He stood watching, his mouth in a sulk as she slid a sleeve neatly into the armhole, clicked down the foot and expertly stitched it into place. She’d made several circular skirts and was now experimenting with a couple of blouses.
‘What the hangment are you doing now?’
‘Trying to earn a living.’
‘If you’d married me you’d be living round at mine with mum to do all the cooking and help with the baby. And you wouldn’t need to work at all, save for helping out at the café.’
Dena cut off the thread and reached for the second sleeve, giving a soft sigh. ‘Be honest, Kenny, you were never too keen on the idea of getting married. Your first reaction was utter panic, and you don’t even like babies.’ Dena had noticed he rarely made a move to touch Trudy, let alone pick her up.
Kenny troubled her deeply. Despite having stood him up at the altar, he couldn’t seem to get it into his head that it was all over between them. At one time she’d wanted him to call, now she wished she could stop him from coming round. Yet he was her child’s father so felt she owed him something at least. And she had long since forgiven him for taking her to see his ‘friend’ because that was Kenny all over: act first, think later.
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