The Glowing Hours

by Marina Oliver

  Kitty laughed. 'Heavens, how should I know?' she said airily. 'Dark brown? But why this sudden interest in my hair?'

  He shook his head, and hastily finished another mouthful. 'In some lights it looks red. Yet in others it seems quite black.'

  'Dark brown, that covers every variation, unless you're going to say I'm striped or pied. And my eyes are a funny sort of hazel in case you want to discuss them too. Don't try and change the subject, sweetie-pie. What happened last night?'

  'I went out for a cigarette. I was being good, dear coz, knowing how you feel about the smell – '

  'Not me, Mama. She's fanatical, and even though she's on the opposite side of the Atlantic, thank God, and long may she stay there, she'd hear about it from Meggy. And that would be the end of your free room and board here, my sweet. But surely you didn't make all that noise trying to light up?'

  He laughed. 'You must get old Betts to put a lock on the stable. Some wretched urchin had got into there and was bedding down for the night.'

  Kitty's eyes grew round with excitement and Andrew suppressed a grin. She might pluck her eyebrows into a pencil-thin line, wear the latest fashions and try to appear blasé and sophisticated, but when she was in a pleasant mood she could be a good sort, still eager for fun.

  'Did you catch him?' she asked. 'What did you do? How absolutely thrilling! Ought we to send for the police?'

  'It wasn't a him. I was so startled to see a girl jump up from the hay I almost dropped the lantern.'

  'A girl? Darling, what fun! But why did you have a lantern?'

  'I'd fetched it and a knife when I realised someone was inside. I heard the door as she pulled it shut. She'd tied that loop of string round the hook, and luckily I could just get the knife through the crack and cut it.'

  'What happened? Did she get away? Or are you being terribly wicked and depraved, and hiding her in your room? Didn't you do that at Oxford with some girl? I shall be jealous, darling.'

  He laughed ruefully. 'No, that was Paul. I put the lantern down and went to grab her, but she bit my hand, the little devil! And there's no need to chortle like that!'

  'You're six foot tall, broad, you played rugger at Harrow, and you let a child just bite your hand and escape? How simply divine! And you don't want me to laugh!'

  'Damn it, she was older than I thought at first. She looked such a child, but when she ran away, I saw she was – er – taller than I'd expected. It startled me.'

  'Taller?' Kitty queried mischievously. 'Surely you mean more buxom? I am certainly jealous! Andrew, darling, you're actually blushing!'

  'Don't be a congenital idiot! Do you want more tea?' he asked curtly, going to the sideboard to replenish his plate.

  'Stop being snappy! It's not like you. I don't want any more tea. And I do wish you'd eat less!' she added petulantly, her mood threatening to change. 'It's not fair, I eat hardly anything and I can't stay thin, while you eat like a pig and stay exactly the same as you've been for years.'

  'You fuss too much. You're too skinny already. Meggy always says I need feeding up when I come here. And it's so much better than any other digs, I have to make up for the beastly food in them.'

  'Andrew, darling, don't let's squabble. Tell me more about this girl. Which way did she go? Why the devil should she try to sleep in our stable? That was it, wasn't it? She wasn't trying to steal the horses?'

  'She was wrapped up in one of the blankets, I had the impression she was settling down for the night. But she'd vanished completely by the time I'd picked up the lantern, not even the rustle of bushes to give her away.'

  'What was she like?'

  He shrugged. 'It's hard to say. She looked very pale, but that could have been the poor light. Dark hair, it gleamed like ebony, no lighter shades such as you have, thick ropes of it hanging down her back. A wide forehead, pointed chin, but I couldn't see many details, just the shape. Almost as tall as you, very thin, and clothes that were ragged and hardly big enough for her. And boots. I know she had boots because she kicked me on the shin, too.'

  Kitty giggled. 'What a lark! That's something I wouldn't dare do! Did she say anything? Was she a local girl, or could she have been a gypsy?'

  'I don't know. She didn't make a sound. But just in case she has any friends around, take care today. Get Betts to put on a lock. Aunt Cecily would be furious if she thought I wasn't protecting you properly. That's the only reason she and Meggy encourage me to stay here.'

  'Her suffragette notions don't extend that far! Men still have the task of protecting poor feeble women,' Kitty mocked. 'Not that you did very well against another slip of a girl,' she added.

  He stood abruptly. 'I must go. Rehearsal at nine. And a matinée. Don't expect me back until late, I'll eat out.'

  Kitty pouted. 'You're such a bore these days, obsessed with your wretched saxophone. I hardly ever see you when you come here, we never have fun. Thank heavens darling Timothy is in Birmingham this weekend.'

  *

  Saturday was the day Mrs Baxter had the use of the wash house in the court. It was the least popular day, since everyone wanted to clean their own houses for the weekend. She had to take it because they were the last to come to live there. And she'd given up long ago any pretence that she could keep her home as well as her Ma had done. Ma hadn't had sixteen kids. Nor had she been reduced to living in a back-to-back slum house with twelve children in just two small bedrooms, and all the water having to be fetched from a tap the far side of the court.

  At first she'd tried hard, when they'd rented a through house in Walsall. Then her Albert lost the good job he'd had on the railways, and they'd moved several times, getting nearer to Dudley, with Albert taking less and less well paid jobs, and the houses they could afford getting smaller and meaner. Two years ago they'd landed here, in Ladywood. Albert found a job as a porter in one of the metal workshops, and so far, despite his drinking, he'd managed to keep it.

  She bent to lay the kindling under the copper, and turned as Nell staggered into the wash house with two brimming buckets. She looked pale and tired, and Mrs Baxter wondered where she had spent the night.

  'I've fed the kids, but young Ronny's howlin' again,' Nell said briefly, as her mother helped her lift the heavy buckets to tip the water into the copper. 'Shall I bring him out here?'

  'I fed 'im less than an 'our since,' her mother said wearily. ' 'E don't 'ave the strength ter suck. But yer should be on yer way ter work, ducks,' she added. 'Yer mustn't be late.'

  'I won't be, I can run, so I've time to help yer carry a couple more buckets in here, Ma. An' I'll help clear up this afternoon.'

  'Yer's a good wench, Nell.'

  When Nell had to go at last, fearful of being late to her job operating a press in the same factory where her father worked, Mrs Baxter stood, her youngest child clasped to her sagging breast, and looked after her wistfully. Saturday again. It was the worst day of the week, and not only because it was washday. It was backbreaking work, heaving the buckets of water about, thumping the dirt out of the washing with the dolly, then lifting it all out and rinsing and mangling, finally draining the water and tidying up. All the time she had to try not to make more holes and tears in the worn, shabby fabrics. She could cope with hard work, she'd been used to it all her life. Saturday was also the night Albert went to the pub.

  He couldn't usually afford to go more than once a week, not since they'd moved here. On Saturdays he went regularly, and drank until he was convinced he was boxing champion of Birmingham. He'd been a fine figure of a man when she'd married him; now he was flabby and coarse. She'd come to dread the nights he went boozing. It was a blessing if he came to blows with a neighbour, or a mate down at the pub. Then he'd roll home either too battered to want to do more than crawl into bed, or so pleased he'd won he went to bed happy. The first was better for her, as then he didn't want her body; and she could endure it when he was happy. It was when he'd been deprived of a fight that he took it out on her or the kids. Like last night when he'd fo
und a shilling in the gutter on his way home, but being Friday none of his usual cronies had been in the pub. She thought she ought to have got used to beatings, she'd had so many. They still hurt though, especially when he wielded his belt instead of just his hands and feet. It was the kids she was afraid for, Nell in particular.

  Albert hadn't wanted her to come home at first when Gran Perry died. He'd called her stuck up, with her swanky voice and finicky ways. Then he'd got her a job with his own employer, and her wages reconciled him to her presence. To begin with she'd answered him back and he couldn't abide that. She'd soon learnt not to and taken her own way of avoiding him. Albert might be too drunk to count his children on those nights when he went into the bedroom and whipped them, but she knew Nell wasn't there. One day he might realise it too. She didn't dare ask her daughter where she went, in case Albert beat it out of her. She couldn't betray Nell if she didn't know. She just prayed, if there was any God left, that He would watch over Nell and keep her from evil company.

  *

  When Kitty strolled down to the stable she found Betts, the gardener and coachman, already fixing a stout padlock to the door.

  'Dunno what's a'comin', folks get so bold,' he grumbled, taking off his flat cap and scratching his almost bald head. 'It's a mercy Mr Andrew dain't set stable alight, messin' about wi' lanterns.'

  Kitty absentmindedly agreed as she gave the horses their daily apples. The horse blankets were still lying on the heap of hay, and she reached for them. A tattered shawl slid to the floor, and after she'd folded the blankets Kitty picked it up.

  'She must have left this,' she remarked to Betts, who grunted and looked disparagingly at the shawl. Originally knitted from black wool, it was thin, ragged and full of holes. Someone had made an attempt to darn the worst holes with different coloured scraps of wool, but as Kitty handled it more threads gave way. It was long past being usable.

  'Burn it,' Betts advised. 'It'll be crawlin' wi' lice.'

  Kitty shuddered fastidiously and held the shawl away from her. She walked to the end of the garden and was about to throw it on the bonfire pile when she paused. The intruder, whoever she was, had owned this, and the chances were she hadn't anything else. A rare compassionate impulse attacked Kitty and she turned away.

  Thoughtfully Kitty wandered back. The girl would never dare come to ask for the shawl, but she might steal back secretly and try to find it. Kitty strolled on towards the garden in front of the house. Where could she leave it? Eventually she draped the shawl over a bush in the shrubbery just inside the front gateway. Anyone trying to hide from view of the windows would be likely to see it, but no one on the carriage drive could. And it was hidden from the road by the sandstone wall.

  *

  'I'm clemmed! That shawl belonged to all on us!'

  'It's still warmer than downstairs, with no coal and nothin' else fer the fire,' Nell replied, yawning.

  'It 'ud be warmer still if you 'adn't took that shawl!'

  'Oh, Eth! Stop moaning!' Nell muttered. 'I'm tired. Let me get ter sleep.'

  'Yer shouldn't 'a spent all last night out then,' Eth said self-righteously.

  'I'd rather sleep in the gutter than let 'im beat me again. How can yer stand it, Eth?'

  Nell, lying precariously on the outside of the narrow bed, felt her sister shrug.

  'What else can us do? Pa's allus got drunk an' when 'e gets mad as well 'e comes an' leathers us.'

  'We could leave. Now you've got a job too we could find a room somewhere, like Ned and Bert did. Danny and Sam said before they went out they'll go now Sam's working, soon as he's saved a few bob. The other lads are gettin' bigger, there ain't room fer four o' them in a bed now. Nor for us. And the two little 'uns will soon be too big for that mattress on the floor.'

  'Nell, don't leave me!' Amy, lying top to toe between her older sisters, sat up suddenly. 'Tek me with yer, please! I couldn't bear it if yer weren't 'ere!'

  'You're too little, police 'ud send yer back. An' lie down, Amy, yer mekin' it wus!' Eth grumbled 'It's bloody cold wi'out that shawl! Yer shouldn't 'a took it!'

  Nell sighed with exasperation. 'I'll go and look fer it tomorrow. I know where I dropped it. Eth, why won't yer get away with me?'

  'Shurrup, you lot! Let rest on us sleep!' It was Norman, the youngest of the four boys who slept in the bed behind the curtain which divided the already small room into two.

  Nell couldn't sleep despite her weariness. She had crept back to the familiar churchyard and huddled down in the shelter of a buttress after her adventure in the stable. She was too wary to stay in the Edgbaston area, in one of the other places she'd found, in case a search was begun. It was the frustration of her position which irked her most, though, and she fretted at Eth's acceptance of it. The older boys were going, but she knew she couldn't survive on her own. She didn't earn enough. She needed Eth, the only other girl old enough to have a job.

  Could she run away? Would it be possible to get out of Birmingham, where Pa could never find her? But she'd never been further than Sutton Coldfield, and he'd guess she might go there. He'd found her there last year when she'd run away before. Nell thrust away thoughts of Sutton. If she began to remember her Gran and the lovely green countryside and the peaceful Park with its beautiful trees and open spaces and tranquil pools she would cry, and that served no purpose. Gran was dead, she had to look after herself. And whether Eth came with her or not soon she would get out of this hellish slum.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  'There isn't a single man here who can dance properly!' Gwyneth complained to Lizzie. 'They all seem to prefer walking on my toes.'

  Lizzie giggled and tossed her neatly shingled blonde head. 'I don't come here to dance,' she confided. 'I think I've clicked. See that big feller over by the band? The one with the green waistcoat. He wants to walk me home. Lives in Harborne. Got a good job, he's a carpenter, working on some of the new houses in Bourneville.'

  Gwyneth nodded. It seemed as though half the people in the hall came just for the opportunity to meet each other. She came to dance. From the time she could toddle she'd wanted to dance.

  'I wonder if it would be worth going to a proper class?' she mused.

  'Why bother? They sometimes have professionals here to demonstrate the new dances, and you can watch the others.'

  I want much more, Gwyneth thought. Lizzie just didn't understand how much more there was. I want to know the proper steps, I want a partner who can dance them with me, do something more exciting, more satisfying than at the dance halls. Some of the men knew just enough to shuffle round the dance floor; others risked falling over by galloping about wildly in a polka or a travesty of a waltz. During the next week at work she grew more determined to look for a school which taught modern dancing. She'd go on her own now Lizzie had found herself a man. Lizzie was going dancing again on Saturday with her new boyfriend.

  'I feel bad about it,' she said on Monday as they walked to the tram. 'It's as if I'm deserting you.'

  'Don't be a fool!' Gwyneth tried to reassure her.

  'But I do. Tell you what, I'll ask George if he's got a pal. Perhaps the next week we'll make up a foursome.'

  'No, don't do that. Not until you know him better and are going out regularly,' Gwyneth warned and Lizzie looked thoughtful. It wouldn't do to presume, be too forward, and risk losing George. He was a catch, if she could hold on to him.

  Back in her room Gwyneth forced herself to examine her motives. She really did want to learn to dance properly. She always had, but her father's refusal to allow her to go to classes as a child, indeed his utter condemnation of secular singing and every form of dancing as the works of the devil, had soured their relationship all her life.

  She also didn't want to be put into the position of making up a foursome with George and any of his friends. She found them brash and crude. Was she being snobbish? Was she judging too hastily on the acquaintance of just a few minutes after the dance on Saturday? They had chatted outsi
de the ballroom before separating, and perhaps George and his friends, with their broad jokes and winks and nudges, had been embarrassed, showing off to cover it up. It wasn't just that she hadn't particularly liked them; if she went with Lizzie it would become a custom, difficult to break, and she didn't want to spend her very limited free time that way.

  By Wednesday Gwyneth had convinced herself her reluctance was not due to snobbishness, but a genuine desire to learn properly. One of the problems of being the rebellious daughter of a Minister was the constant need to examine everything she did in case it was uncharitable, selfish, or in some other way wrong. She'd been chastised for such faults so often it was second nature to worry about them.

  She'd escaped from all that. Now she could please herself. Wednesday was her half day and she'd seen some advertisements for dancing schools, so she looked at the ones near the city centre. One in Broad Street took her fancy. 'The Bliss School of Stage and Modern Dancing', the notice outside the house proclaimed. 'Proprietors: Frank and Edwina Bliss'. As she hesitated the door opened and a group of girls and young men emerged. They looked cheerful, contented. Gwyneth watched them disappear down the road and took a deep breath. Nervously she smoothed down her unruly hair. Then she knocked firmly on the door.

  *

  Nell woke with a start. Had she been dreaming? No, it came again, a high, piercing scream. This time it was followed by a ferocious bellow which sounded like Pa, and other angry male voices.

  'I'm frit!' It was Amy, clinging to her arm and hiding her face against Nell's shoulder.

  'That's Ma yellin',' Eth said, her voice trembling. ' 'Er don't never do that, even when 'e 'its 'er.'

  'It sounds like Danny. I'm goin' ter see what's up,' Nell whispered, though in the noise beneath them no one could have heard her voice. 'Amy, stay with Eth and Fanny, they'll look after yer.'

  She slipped on her skirt and crept to the door. One hinge was broken, so she had to ease it open carefully.

  'Let me goo first,' Benjy said behind her, but Nell shook her head and he didn't persist. He was twelve, but thin and weedy, and one blow from Pa's fist would send him right across the room.