by Nancy Carson
‘And if I let you kiss me you won’t think I’m cheap?’
‘Cheap? ’Course not. I already know you’re decent and respectable.’
He planted a kiss gently on her cheek, as soft as a butterfly landing on a blossom, lingering for a second. Then his lips slowly brushed across her face, moving inexorably to her mouth. She did not resist; rather she waited excitedly, her lips sensually parted; ready for him. It seemed like an age, but in a few seconds she felt his mouth on hers, soft, searching, hungry for contact. Inevitably she compared it to Jesse’s kiss: it was different because Ben had no moustache, but it was no less pleasant. But with this kiss she could respond whole-heartedly; wring full pleasure from it. She felt her skin running with warmth. It was so pleasant she thought it must be utterly wicked, and broke off, panting a little, feeling guilty after all, her breath hot in the cold, night air.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she sighed. But she wanted to experience him more; much, much more. He made her toes curl; he sent tingles up and down her spine. Kissing him was far too pleasant to avoid.
He drew her closer. When he felt no resistance he searched for her lips again and found them waiting for him as if she was expecting it. For the first time ever he felt her body against him, and he ran his hands down the back of her coat to better appreciate her slenderness, while his lips enjoyed the taste of her.
Lizzie’s pulse raced and her mind raced with it. She sensed an unforeseen reaction deep, deep within her, ruthlessly churning up her emotions, tearing anarchically at her very soul, like nothing she had ever known before. Parts of her seemed to come alive that she never expected could. She was longing to be touched, longing to be caressed, and it was a revelation. Her breathing came faster, because these new, sudden sensations were exhilarating, tearing her breath away; her legs were like jelly; her head seemed to spin.
It was some minutes before she became acclimatised to all this delight. She broke off casually, reluctantly, to get her breath back and muster her thoughts. She rested her head on Ben’s shoulder. Would it always be like this? Could it always be like this? Then, strangely, just for a moment, she noticed the cold again, yet infinitely more intense than before and she shuddered. Was this fleeting sensation that penetrated through to her very bones an omen? He sensed her sudden angst and squeezed her affectionately, protectively, rubbing his cheek against her lush brown hair.
‘I’ve been dying to do that for ages,’ Ben whispered. ‘I’ve often wondered what it’d be like, kissing you.’
She sighed, looked up into his eyes and smiled, for the awful, ominous chill left her as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I’ve wondered the same about you, Ben, but I don’t suppose you’ll believe it.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, I’d like to believe it. I want to believe it.’
‘It’s true … I swear it’s true.’
He held her a while longer, savouring the emotions and this other unworldly atmosphere.
‘Come on,’ he said at last. ‘We’d better get back. They’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’
‘Oh, let ’em wonder. Come on. Let’s carry on with our walk. As long as we’re back before midnight so you can let the new year in for us …’
Chapter 7
January saw Ben Kite and Lizzie Bishop meeting three or four times a week when he was not working the night shift. Even when the weather was too inclement to venture out Ben would make the uphill trek from Tividale to Kates Hill and spend the evening at Cromwell Street with Lizzie, content with a lingering, goodnight kiss at the back door before he returned home. To be alone they would take a stroll, either through Oakham’s quiet lanes, or into the town where they could gaze into shop windows and weave their dreams.
Eve took to Ben at once. She would have no qualms if things progressed to marriage; he was all she had hoped for in a son-in-law.
And Ben was eager to show off his lovely new sweetheart to his mother and his brothers. So one cold, crisp night, when snow was lying a couple of inches thick, he persuaded Lizzie to walk with him to Tividale to meet them. He had four brothers, but on this first visit she met only two, since the other two were married and lived elsewhere. Ben’s mother, Charlotte, pale, thin and withdrawn, had sought solace in Methodism. His father was the reason.
‘I can remember even when I was a babby, Lizzie, how my father used to come home blind drunk of a night,’ Ben told her as they sauntered hand-in-hand past the old brick works, towards Kates Hill. ‘He used to set about me and my brothers, and then our mother. Mother always had a black eye in those days. He served her barbarous. We hated the sight of him … Still do … If I thought I was going to turn out like him, I’d do away with myself. By the time he came back home of a Friday night, all his money had gone on drink and betting. Mother seldom had any money to feed us and we’d never got backsides in our trousers, nor soles on our shoes. If it hadn’t been for other Methodists my mother knew, and our Cedric and David bringing some money in, we’d have starved. I got no respect for him. No respect at all.’
‘It must be terrible to have no respect for your father.’ Lizzie’s breath hung like mist.
‘It is, I agree. But, as I see it, being a father don’t entitle you to respect. Respect’s something you have to earn – even your own father has to earn it. Mine never earned any respect from anybody – not even his workmates – least of all from us lads. He’s nothing but a pig, Lizzie.’
‘Thank goodness you’re nothing like him.’ She put her arms around his waist and squeezed him warmly. ‘If I ever see you getting like him, I’ll remind you what you said.’
‘There’s no fear of it, Lizzie.’
‘I think I know that already, Ben,’ she said softly, all her love in her eyes. ‘I think you’re too considerate to be like your father.’
‘Despite him, or because of him, I understand the difference between right and wrong – between good and bad. I can see what makes folk happy, and I can see how some folk can make others unhappy, as if there’s a sort of sadistic pleasure to be gleaned from it. It generally all stems from drink, you know, like it does with him. Not that I’m against drink, Lizzie – I like a drink myself.’
‘There’s no harm in having a drink. It’s when folks get proper drunk … all the time.’
‘What about your own father, Lizzie. Did he drink?’
‘Like a fish. He liked a drink more than anybody, but at least he never knocked our mother about … And he always turned his money up. Mind you, I’ve found out, since I’ve been older, that he was fond of women. Rumours maybe, I don’t know for sure. But even our Joe thinks he had one or two other women in his time. I loved him dearly though. He was always kind to me, and to the others, as far as I know.’
‘Does your mother know he had other women?’
‘She’s never said as much. Not to me at any rate. Either way, it never stopped her being a good wife.’
‘It’s amazing how tolerant some women can be.’
‘Daft, more like. I don’t think I’d be as tolerant, Ben. I’m sure I wouldn’t. I’d be a suffragette.’
They walked on in silence for a few moments, the snow underfoot crisp with frost.
‘What do you think of the suffragettes?’ Lizzie enquired. ‘D’you agree with what they’re doing?’
‘No, I don’t. But I agree with what they stand for – the right for women to vote and all that – there’s nothing wrong with that. But I don’t agree with the way they’re going about it. The more outrageous the things they do, the more they alienate ordinary, decent folk.’
‘You’ll have to talk to May about Mrs Pankhurst, Ben. May thinks Mrs Pankhurst’s a saint.’
‘Mrs Pankhurst’s a bloody fool, Lizzie. Women would get the vote a lot sooner if she shut up. Women are denied the vote now out of defiance for the way she and her cronies carry on.’
‘Well, I think she’s a brave woman. May says the only reason women won’t get the vote yet is because the Liberals would lose too many votes to Labour. Campbell-Bannerman would be o
ut of office.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t argue with that. It’s obvious as the Liberals would lose out. Labour supports the suffragettes, and most women would vote Labour. But it’d be Lord help us if that damn fool Keir Hardie ever got to be prime minister.’
Lizzie then had a précis of the life of Keir Hardie. The way Ben argued it she agreed with him that somebody less radical might be the best choice for Britain.
They reached the back door of 48 Cromwell Street, and Lizzie let her mother know she was home. They stood for five minutes at the top of the entry whispering to each other and giggling, punctuating their words with kisses. But the bitter cold precipitated Ben’s departure sooner than either would have preferred.
Lizzie was in love. Ben was never out of her thoughts, and seldom out of her conversation. It was like the time when she was infatuated with Stanley Dando; except that what she felt for Ben seemed many times stronger. Perhaps it was because her love was reciprocated. Perhaps it was because the memory of the heartache of that earlier unhappy time was fading. She did not have to cope with dejection, of wondering why this lad was avoiding her, for he was not; he would walk Great Britain to be with her. She had not told him yet that she loved him, but she suspected he knew. Anyway, it was up to him to tell her first. When they were together they were blissfully happy, joyful, easy with each other. Their affinity was strong, but not intense and, when they were apart, they relived over and over in their minds the moments they shared.
*
Jesse Clancey managed to catch sight of Lizzie one evening as she was returning from work. He’d walked to Brown Street to get his hair cut and buy a gallon of lamp oil, and as he came out of Totty Marsh’s shop carrying his can Lizzie was passing on the other side of the street. He called to her, and she turned round.
‘How are you, Lizzie?’
He crossed over to join her, and she replied with an open smile that she was well. She knew she must meet up with Jesse sooner or later, for she had not seen him since the fiasco of New Year’s Eve; but she’d been dreading the moment.
‘You look well, Lizzie. You always look a picture.’
She smiled and thanked him again.
‘You’re courting strong, I hear. Is it the same chap as was at Joe’s on New Year’s Eve?’
She nodded with a self-conscious smile as they turned the corner into Cromwell Street. They passed a woman and her daughter, poorly dressed, pushing a small handcart containing a few lumps of coal along the gutter. Jesse greeted them cheerily, then turned to Lizzie.
‘I expect you’ve heard about Sylvia and me, eh?’
She looked up at him. ‘No, nothing, Jesse. Not a thing.’
‘We split up that night, you know. Well, you saw how wicked she was when she copped us together.’
‘I’ll never forget it, Jesse.’ She blushed at the memory of Jesse’s stolen kisses.
‘Well, when she calmed down, I walked her back home. I told her then as I didn’t love her, and there was no point in carrying on. And that was that, really. I’ve neither seen her, nor heard from her since.’
‘I guessed you must’ve broken it off, Jesse, but I hope you told her I was innocent of everything.’
‘Oh, I did. I made that plain.’
‘Well, maybe you didn’t make it plain enough. There’s none of the Dandos been a-nigh our house since that night. Something’s been said and they must’ve taken the hump, but there’s no need for my Uncle Tom and Aunt Sarah to stop calling to see my mother. She had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘I’m sorry if it’s caused her any trouble. I really am.’
‘It’s caused her no trouble in that sense, Jesse. She knows nothing about it. They haven’t been to church since, either. I guessed Sylvia must’ve told them what had happened, and I knew they’d blame me if she did. I suppose Mother’s all part of the conspiracy in their eyes. They’re bound to avoid her. It’s a shame, though, Jesse, a crying shame … So what does your mother think of it all?’
‘She went mad. Mother liked Sylvia. She liked her a lot. And Sylvia liked Mother. Matter of fact, Sylvia’s been up to our house since to see her – when I’ve been out, of course, as you might expect.’
‘I bet my name’s mud …’
‘Does that bother you, Lizzie? You know in your own mind as you weren’t to blame.’
‘Your mother never speaks to me as it is. I don’t see why I should appear the worse for being accused of something I haven’t done.’
‘I told Mother as you had nothing to do with it, Lizzie.’
Jack Hardwick was just sweeping sawdust out of his little butcher’s shop as they were walking past and he hailed Jesse. Jesse paused to pass the time of day and Lizzie took advantage of the opportunity to bid him cheerio. As she went indoors the aroma of lamb stew met her. Eve was tending it on the hob, but greeted Lizzie when she entered. Lizzie took off her coat and hung it on a nail at the back of the cellar door. It was time to inform her mother that she had seen Jesse; time to break the news that he and Sylvia were no longer courting; time to explain how it had all come about. And Eve was not so stupid that she could not put two and two together. She would soon conclude that this was the reason she had not seen Tom and Sarah.
Eve was very understanding, however. She accepted that none of the blame was Lizzie’s, but explained why Sylvia would perceive it differently, since she was hardly likely to blame herself. It was in Sylvia’s own interest, Eve said, to remain the injured party.
*
On 4th of March, a Wednesday, Lizzie overheard two men who’d stepped off the West Bromwich tram talking about two dozen miners that were said to be trapped underground at the Hamstead Colliery at Great Barr. The thought of such a catastrophe, if it was true, horrified her. Ben was certain to know about it but, as he was working the night shift, she was unlikely to see him; unless he called for her at dinnertime, as he sometimes did if he rose early from his bed.
Next day she gleaned other snippets from customers and there was no doubt that what she’d heard was true. But, again, Ben failed to meet her at dinnertime to verify it. So she went out to buy a newspaper to try and find out more. It turned out that a fire was raging underground at the colliery, and rescuers were doing all they could to get twenty-eight missing men out.
*
It was the first Friday in March 1908 that Tom Dando decided that much of what he’d been hearing about Jesse Clancey and Lizzie Bishop was supposition. On his way home from work he would call in to see Eve, to try and discover the truth. He was wound up with guilt at not having seen his old friend since New Year. And all because of what Sylvia had told her mother. But what Sylvia had told Sarah did not ring true.
As he trudged through the dark, dilapidated streets of Dudley, he realised that it was almost six years since Isaac Bishop had been killed. He recalled how they used to walk home together chatting like two old biddies. Isaac would talk about whatever came into his head. But Tom was different; he was more reserved and could not make small talk that readily so, even though he did not altogether admire Isaac, he found him easy company because he did most of the talking. And Isaac, Tom was sure, was not aware of the contempt he held for him; he was oblivious to it.
Tom could picture Isaac now, in his baggy cord trousers and the oil-stained jacket to his old suit that was elbowless and rumpled. Round his neck he always wore a grubby muffler that used to be white before it was relegated to working attire, and an old bowler hat that many a time was irreverently used as a bucket to fetch coal from the cellar, when his back was turned. The family, including Tom, often laughed about that.
Six years. Lord, how the time had fled. That fateful day Isaac was killed had been like any other Saturday. Except for the wind. That damned, biting wind had been howling through the narrow streets, snatching the very breath from their mouths as they speculated on Kitchener’s endeavours, and how soon it would be before the Boers finally surrendered. The howling of the wind had prevented Isaac hearing Ja
ck Clancey’s runaway horse and float careering fatally towards him along Brown Street.
Isaac had had other women, but how many, and who they were Tom might never know. Who was to know? Isaac would never admit to anything. Rumours surfaced with the persistence of a cork bobbing up and down in a flooded stream. But Isaac would never divulge what he wanted no one else to know. He never talked about his indiscretions. Of course there had been other women; there must have been. Just as long as Sarah had not fallen prey. That possibility had plagued Tom for a good many years. Sarah, though, was never noted for her beauty; she was plain and on the skinny side; whereas Isaac liked his women well-fleshed and handsome; and the way they used to be attracted to him he could pick and choose. Isaac had loved Eve in his way, but could never remain faithful while other women were prepared to risk his attentions. Women were like a drug. One was never enough; twenty never too many.
Eve had deserved better. She’d always been a fine-looking woman. She was getting old now and deaf as a post since Lizzie was born. Even in her forties, after all those children, she was a handsome-fleshed woman but, as a young woman, she really had been the pick of the bunch.
Tom had always carried a torch for her, yet it was Isaac who’d won her.
When Tom reached the house in Cromwell Street he ceased his daydreaming and walked straight in.
‘Tom!’ Eve exclaimed, putting her hand to her breast. ‘You frightened me to death.’
‘Sorry, my darlin’.’ He bent down and kissed her on the cheek like a long lost brother.
‘Where’s our Lizzie?’
‘Not back from work yet. I’m waiting for her to come before I start boiling these two pieces of cod I’ve bought … Sit you down, Tom, and I’ll make you a cup o’ tea.’ She got up from her chair slowly. Her diabetes, though stabilised, left her feeling tired much of the time. She no longer had the energy she used to have, and moving required effort. ‘Where’ve you been hiding all this time? It’s been weeks since I last clapped eyes on you.’ She nestled the kettle on to the coals and reached for the japanned tea-caddy on the mantel shelf, where it stood next to a vignetted photograph of Isaac aged forty-two, posing formally, wearing a stand-up starched collar and his usual arrogant expression.