'Tek off that fancy blouse first. Yer can find another, an' that'll mek a bob or two at 'Annah Clark's in Broad Street. 'Er teks better stuff than Ma West.'
With a shrug and a scornful smile Nell complied as slowly as she dared, but when her Pa saw the silk camisole she wore beneath he went berserk. Nell bit her tongue, suppressing the cries of agony induced as the strap, with the hard steel buckle, landed time after time on her back and shoulders.
It was fortunate for her he still had enough sense of what was right not to order her to lift her skirts. She didn't think she could have borne the humiliation of having her bare bottom whipped in front of all her brothers and sisters. Her main concern was to rescue the blouse. When he'd had enough and slumped, exhausted, into the chair beside the fireplace, she snatched up the blouse and escaped outside to the wash house. She stripped off the silk camisole, now ripped to shreds, streaked with blood, and utterly ruined.
Ten-year-old Amy crept out to where she huddled in the wash house. 'Nell, are yer 'urtin' much?' she whispered.
Nell swallowed the tears she had allowed to fall.
'I'm sore,' she admitted. 'I wish I could reach me back ter wash off the blood.'
Amy, who worshipped her eldest sister, shyly took her hand in her own little ones. 'I'll do it,' she offered eagerly. 'I'll be right gentle, I promise.'
And she had been. Pa had taken himself off to the pub, hoping to find a mate to treat him. Amy fetched a stub of candle and some rags, and in the feeble light of the candle and the glow from the gas lamp in the yard she helped Nell soak off the dried blood. She even insisted on going to beg some ointment from Mrs Jenkins, a childless widow who lived in the next court and often comforted them when they were hurt.
The bleeding soon stopped, and Nell could safely put on the precious blouse. By morning her back ached abominably. It was small consolation that Eth, Fanny and Amy, who shared her bed, lavished extravagant praise on the thick shawl and coat she had brought home, and refrained from asking a single question about how she had obtained them.
***
Chapter 4
Gwyneth hardly listened to Lizzie as the following Saturday approached. She was quite uninterested in the other girl's excited speculations about George, and worries about how far she should let him go if he wanted to kiss her after the dance. All she could think of were her own plans for dancing classes. After she had seen Mr Bliss and arranged for her lessons she could barely wait for Saturday afternoon to arrive, and Miss Fremling took her aside more than once to warn her to pay more attention to her work.
Mr Bliss had been charming. Perhaps he was a bit too smooth with his thickly brilliantined hair and small dapper moustache, and she didn't like men to smell of old English lavender, but he had been businesslike. He'd shown her the room he called the studio, which was really the two ground floor parlours of the house knocked into one big room, with a piano in the corner and rows of pegs along one wall.
'We don't dress up, they are not social dances we organise,' he'd explained. 'Wear a light, comfortable dress with plenty of room to move. Keep one pair of well fitting shoes just for dancing, and bring a bag to keep them in and change when you get here. That's what the pegs are for, to hang up your coats and hats and outdoor shoes.'
'I'd like to do theatrical dancing too, Mr Bliss,' Gwyneth said diffidently. 'Is it difficult?'
'Not if you have talent and discipline. But I do not allow just anyone to join the stage classes. I need to know their potential first. Then, if I approve, they can come to a beginners' class and try out.'
'I understand, Mr Bliss.'
'I'm training troupes of girls like my friend John Tiller does. With the new Ciné Variety theatres there's a great demand for good chorus girls, many opportunities for dancers with talent. Would you like to earn your living in the musical theatre?'
'Oh, yes,' Gwyneth breathed. If only she could! 'I can sing too,' she told him.
'Good. Girls have to have all sorts of talents to succeed on the stage. It's not easy, it demands dedication and hard work.'
'I'll work as hard as anyone,' Gwyneth declared, her eyes shining.
'Then I will see you on Saturday afternoon, it's the only time I can fit you in, there's such a craze for dancing now and so many people want to come.'
Gwyneth saw this was true when she arrived, eager and excited, ten minutes early for her lesson. A plump maid, no more than fifteen, neat and pert in her black dress and frilly white apron, let her in.
'The first lesson ain't – isn't – finished yet, Miss,' she said breathlessly. 'You'll 'ave ter wait in the passage.'
Gwyneth didn't care. She was too interested in the photographs of dancers which lined the walls of the passage. Studying these in the rather dim light which came from a small window at the back of the house, she tapped her feet in time to the piano music coming from the studio.
The maid opened the door several more times, and when the early class finished the passage was crowded with girls and young men. Gwyneth smiled shyly at them, and a few smiled back, but no one spoke until the earlier class emerged. Then it was only to apologise and ask pardon repeatedly as the incoming class pressed through the outgoing throng, eager to get into the studio and not waste a minute of their precious hour.
Mr Bliss was waiting, and greeted them all gravely. 'This is your first lesson, ladies and gentlemen, so I explain my method. First we talk a little about important principles of dancing, then Edwina and I will demonstrate a few simple steps, after which you all practise alone. Finally you try them out with partners, and Edwina and I will come round and make sure you are doing them correctly. You understand?'
They nodded, glancing at one another nervously.
'Very well. To be good dancers you must always have the body correctly balanced. If you do not you will look awkward, you may even fall over.' There were some giggles from one or two of the girls. 'Precisely. You also need a sense of rhythm, to follow the regular beats of the music and to be able to keep in time. It is important that the music is played in the correct time, or tempo. The music for some dances has three beats to a bar, like the waltz, which we are going to start with today.'
'I thought we'd never get away from just walking round saying "one, two, three," over and over again!' a pretty blonde girl complained as she and Gwyneth walked away together.
'But it worked! I could feel myself doing it better by the end,' Gwyneth said eagerly. 'Couldn't you?'
The other shrugged. 'I thought I could do it before I came, but having to remember all the names of the steps, and think which foot to start on made it all much more complicated.'
'I found that helped. And it was a lot better knowing what your partner was going to do instead of waiting to see which way he pushed you, and then him starting off on the wrong foot and shuffling around out of time with the music!'
'I don't know. I thought we'd get on to proper dancing sooner. I want to learn the latest steps. If we don't do a lot more next week I don't think I'll waste my money. I'd rather go to a real dance.'
'My mother used to say you couldn't run before you walked, and I suppose dancing is the same, you have to practise the basic steps first.'
They reached the side street which led towards Gwyneth's lodgings. As the other girl waved goodbye and walked away Gwyneth found her thoughts turning relentlessly towards her home and especially her mother. She was doing what she wanted, but it was lonely all the same. She wondered how her mother was getting on without her. Was she worried, or angry? Ought she to send a letter to tell them she was safe and well, with a good job and a respectable room? No, it was too soon. And when she did send a letter she must somehow arrange for it to be posted away from Birmingham, so that they would not be able to trace her. Having tasted freedom she had no intention of ever relinquishing it to go back into her father's dour, joyless control.
*
A week later Nell had the chance she'd been looking for. The previous evening her father had been enticed into the boxi
ng ring behind one of the pubs in Hockley, boasting that he could knock out the professional who was challenging all comers. Instead, he'd been knocked clean out of the ring onto the cobbles and was carried home by his mates. Apart from a mammoth headache he had twisted his ankle, and once put to bed declared he would stay there and be waited on for a change.
When it was dinnertime, Nell went to ask if she could speak to Mr Forster, who owned the factory.
'Well?' he snapped at her. He was a short, tubby man with bristling white eyebrows and a ring of hair surrounding a perfectly bald patch. In the long brown apron he wore all the time, even in his office, he was just like the picture of a monk her Gran had shown her in a book.
'Please, sir, will you give me my wages in future, and not give them to my father?' she asked boldly.
'What! Of all the cheek! Young lady, you are under age and fortunate to be working here. I only gave you a job because your father said you were a good worker. If he chooses to look after your money to prevent you from wasting it that's his business, not mine.'
'But he wastes it!' Nell burst out, furious at this injustice. 'He never gives me a penny for myself!'
Mr Forster looked her up and down, his bushy eyebrows raised. 'Then how do you manage to come to work dressed in good quality clothes that must have cost many times what you earn during a week?'
'I was given them!'
'Yes? And who would be foolish enough to give away clothes of that quality to someone like you? What did you have to do for them, my dear?'
Nell glared at him. His eyes had suddenly grown smaller, like a pig's, and a fat tongue slid out of his mouth and wetted his fleshy lips. Her shoulders sagged. He would never believe her, and probably all sorts of damaging rumours would be spread if she tried to explain. Besides, it was clear he didn't intend to agree to her request about her wages.
'I did nothing. Someone damaged my old clothes and wanted to help,' she said quietly, and turned to go.
Outside the office she leaned for a moment against the wall and closed her eyes. It was ironic that her good fortune in being given these beautiful clothes had caused the beating she'd received, and might lead to unpleasant rumours being spread. She shivered as she recalled the look in old Mr Forster's eyes. She'd have to watch out for him, the old goat!
'Are you feeling unwell?'
She swung round quickly, but it was only Tom Simmons, one of the office clerks. He'd been in the same class as her oldest brother Ned until he'd moved to King Edward's School at Five Ways. He lived in a better part, a big house in Alston Street. She'd heard his father was some sort of high up official in the railwaymen's union, and often went to other cities making speeches, even meeting the Ministers in Parliament.
'I'm all right, thanks.'
'You look very nice in that blouse and skirt.'
'Thank you. I must go, I've still got to eat my dinner.'
One slice of bread and dripping didn't take long to eat, but she knew that if she stayed her fury with both her father and Mr Forster would boil over. It would be wiser to say nothing. By the time she was walking home her anger had become a dull ache of resentment. When Tom fell into step beside her she knew she wouldn't tell him. He might think the worst of her too. Tom, however, was obsessed with a different idea.
'I wondered, Nell – can I call you Nell? After all, Ned and I were once good friends. Would you do me the honour of coming to the Lyric with me tonight? They have a good programme.'
Nell looked at him in astonishment. He'd never paid her any attention before beyond a casual greeting. Was this the result of good clothes?
He was good looking in a slender, bland way, with curly brown hair, wide cheekbones, good teeth and a ready smile. Most of the girls had, at one time or other, been eager to attract his attention, though as far as Nell knew he'd never shown the slightest interest in any of them.
She was tempted. It didn't commit her to anything, and she hadn't been to a picture palace for more than four years. She and her Gran often went, until Gran got too arthritic to walk as far as the New Picture House down by the Ebrook. Suddenly she made up her mind. At home they'd all be bad tempered because Pa would be yelling down the stairs or thumping the bedroom floor demanding impossible delicacies. She would take the opportunity of a little harmless enjoyment.
'Thank you, Tom. That would be nice.'
'Do you have to go home to tell them first? If not, we could have a bite to eat and still make the second showing.'
'I don't need to go home,' Nell declared. They'd scarcely notice whether she was in or not. And whatever Tom meant by a 'bite', it would surely be preferable to the watery stew which was all her mother could ever afford.
*
Gwyneth found herself doing everything in waltz time. She moved round the shop in a daze, humming under her breath all the waltz tunes she knew, oblivious to the stares of the customers who watched, bemused, as she one-two-threed her way across the floor towards them.
'Gwyneth!' Lizzie hissed to her as Miss Fremling emerged from the cubby hole she called her office.
'What? Oh, yes, thanks. Thanks, Lizzie,' Gwyneth muttered, and turned her flushed cheeks towards the customer who had just entered the shop, accompanied by a tall man.
Gwyneth smiled brilliantly, and as she saw one of her most valued customers respond in like manner Miss Fremling changed her own frown to a muted smile of approval. The smile grew a mite less frosty when she saw that Mrs Mandeville selected no fewer than four gowns to try on.
'I wonder if they're too short?' Mrs Mandeville asked anxiously.
'Shorter skirts are the fashion this year, Mother,' the man said encouragingly. He shot a conspiratorial smile towards Gwyneth, and nodded slightly. 'Try them on and see how young you look.'
She laughed. 'I'm not still a girl, Paul dear. I don't want to appear foolish.'
'You're so tall and slim, Madam, they'll look very elegant on you,' Gwyneth said, sincere in her praise. The woman must have been at least fifty, but she still had a slender, upright figure and shapely legs.
Gwyneth caught the look of approval in the young man's eyes, and felt her cheeks grow warm. He was amazingly handsome, in a rugged sort of way. His face was strong. Yes, that was the word. His features were bold, his chin square and his eyes dark and keen under light brown, slightly tawny coloured hair. She noticed his hands, well cared for, with long, powerful fingers.
'Paul dear, I don't want to keep you waiting. You have to visit the Colonel. If he approves of you he'll tell lots of his friends to come to you. Your practice will soon be thriving.'
'I'll go now, and you'll be ready when I get back. I'm sure the young lady can keep you occupied.'
'I've just returned from a visit to Australia. My sister, you know, is living there,' Mrs Mandeville explained to Miss Fremling after he left. 'I'm out of mourning for my husband now and I need some new gowns for the winter. I decided to stay with Paul while I came to see what you had. You usually have the best in town, far better than in Kenilworth, and I don't fancy going all the way to London after the long journey home. And I haven't the slightest idea what is fashionable here. I depend on you to advise me.'
'Miss Davis will help you, and if you need any advice with regard to alterations I will be pleased to assist.'
When Mrs Mandeville had departed, having chosen a total of six gowns, Miss Fremling was so delighted her frown was completely banished for some time.
'She was actually arch when she told you off for dancing in the shop,' Lizzie giggled as they walked to the tram.
Gwyneth laughed ruefully. 'Thank heaven for Mrs Mandeville! And her son. He persuaded her to buy the extra ones, you know, when he came back for her. He said she was invited to several houseparties before Christmas, and would need plenty of gowns.' She sighed. 'I wonder what it's like to stay in really big houses, with proper ballrooms, and dance at private parties?'
'For goodness sake! What's got into you, Gwyneth? You can't talk about anything else but dancing these day
s!'
'But it's so exciting! Lizzie, there's so much more to it than I thought, and Mr Bliss is a very good teacher. He and his wife do demonstration dances at places like the Tower. She's very pretty, slim and tall, with a very elegant blonde bob. Are you sure you don't want to come to my classes?'
Lizzie laughed. 'Not me! I don't call it fun to spend an hour walking about a small room in time to music, and have to pay to be shown how! Besides, at a proper dance you get closer, you know what I mean,' she giggled. 'Gwyneth, promise you won't tell anybody?'
'Tell anybody? Tell them what? Tell who?'
'Promise!'
'If you want me to. Though I don't know anybody you do apart from at work, so I'm not likely to.'
'George – asked if he could kiss me on Saturday,' Lizzie whispered, looking round to make sure no one was eavesdropping.
'Oh. Did he? What did you say?' Gwyneth tried to summon up some enthusiasm for what Lizzie clearly regarded as an earth-shattering event.
'I let him. Gwyneth, you don't think I'm fast, do you?' she asked anxiously. 'I know I only met him the week before, but he's such a gentleman, he wouldn't take advantage, honestly he wouldn't.'
'I'm sure he wouldn't. Was it nice?' she asked after a pause, since it was clear Lizzie had much more to say.
Lizzie sighed ecstatically. 'It was wonderful! He put his arms round me, gently, almost as if we were dancing, then he placed his lips on mine! I could hardly breathe! I opened my eyes just a bit, and he was looking at me so – well, so lovingly! I felt just as if I was one of those vamps in the pictures!'
Gwyneth stifled a giggle as her unruly imagination set to work. She couldn't afford to offend Lizzie, who was the only friend she'd made so far in Birmingham, but she did think it was a dreadful fuss about a simple little kiss. She was sure she wouldn't get so excited if a man kissed her. It wasn't as if George could be compared with Ronald Coleman or Rudolph Valentino. She wouldn't want men like that to kiss her, anyway, she thought suddenly. She'd prefer a man less smooth, with a firm chin, and hair the colour of the lions she'd once seen when they'd stayed in London with her aunt and visited the zoo. As she realised she had just drawn in her mind a picture of Mr Mandeville, her cheeks flamed. Fortunately Lizzie was absorbed in her account of her exact feelings during every single second the kiss had lasted, and hadn't noticed either her abstraction or her blushes. Gwyneth managed to utter suitable remarks until the tram came, and was thankful it was so crowded they had to sit apart.
The Glowing Hours Page 5