The Dressmaker's Daughter

by Nancy Carson

  ‘It’s not flannel, Lizzie. Listen. Out in Rhodesia we have servants to do everything for us – lovely warm-hearted people – you wouldn’t have to lift a finger if you didn’t want to. No more mangling and maiding in the brewhouse on cold winters’ mornings, no drying, no ironing, no black-leading these ridiculous fire grates, no lugging coal up from the damp cellar, no whitening the front step, no changing the bedclothes, no raking out ashes and gleeds from the fire in a morning, no more setting mouse traps. You wouldn’t even have to do your own hair, or bath yourself. Everything would be done for you. It’s paradise. What do you say, Lizzie?’

  ‘Oh, you make it sound very tempting, Stanley, you really do. But I don’t know. Honest, I don’t know. What about if we didn’t like it? What about if you and me didn’t get on?’

  ‘Then you could come back here. Simple.’ He held his hands out, palms up, as an expression of openness and candour. ‘Look, d’you want to think about it? D’you want to talk it over with the children? It’s more than a week till I leave.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Really. There’s so much to think about. What about schools? Maxine’s mad keen to become a cellist, daft as it sounds. Henzey would love to be a commercial artist.’

  ‘Pah!’ he scoffed. ‘Schools are no problem. There’s a good English school in Salisbury, not so far away from the house. A kid can become whatever he or she wants to be over there.’

  ‘But our Herbert’s already got his heart set on a job with Jesse Clancey. Henzey’s already working, and loves it. They have their dreams here as well, you know.’

  ‘Whatever they can do here they can do there, Lizzie. The sky’s the limit. The potential is limitless. Will you think it over?’

  It all made reasonable sense. And he was so persuasive. ‘All right, I’ll think it over. I’ll think it over very seriously, but don’t expect anything to come of it. Anyway, how soon would you want us to go out there? Next week, when you leave?’

  He laughed. ‘That would be nice, but it wouldn’t be possible. There’d be lots of papers and documents to organise. I’ll advise you on all that. And I’d see that you received the money for your fares and all expenses.’

  ‘I see. And how would we travel?’

  ‘By land and by sea, of course. How else? There are railways across the whole of Africa nowadays. Travel wouldn’t be a problem. But we can sort all that out later.’

  ‘All right, Stanley. I’ll give you my answer before you leave.’

  ‘Good. Now, any fear of a cup of tea?’

  ‘’Course, now the fire’s ablaze.’

  Chapter 22

  Alice Kite kept her head down, feigning devout worship that first Sunday evening in February 1927. As she knelt on the hassock she couldn’t help peering to her left to watch the Bishop of Worcester performing his laying-on of hands for their Confirmation. Alice waited, while it was Henzey’s turn, wondering whether she would feel vastly different after it, wondering who had placed these hard, wooden chairs and hassocks between the front pews and the chancel steps before Evensong began. Now it was Herbert’s turn to receive the Episcopal hands. She knew by heart every word of the catechism, but not the Order of Confirmation, yet she’d heard this short prayer the Bishop was reciting in his deep, cultured voice so many times in the last few minutes that she felt she could recite it alone already. Herbert gave his response clearly. Alice continued to look down, and caught a glimpse of the Bishop’s red sanctuary slippers beneath his long, red cassock as he shifted sideways to stop in front of her. She wanted to look up into his face, but she dare not.

  He laid his hands gently on her head and took a deep breath. ‘Defend, O Lord, this thy child with thy heavenly grace,’ he intoned with pious sublimity, ‘that she may continue thine for ever, and daily increase in thy holy spirit more and more, until she come unto thy everlasting kingdom. Amen. The Lord be with you.’

  ‘And with thy spirit.’

  Alice breathed a sigh of relief that it was all over, and as the Bishop shuffled towards Maxine she listened to the proceedings no more.

  Since their father’s death Lizzie had insisted that they all be confirmed, so it was opportune that the vicar had decided to hold confirmation classes in the vestry for all those interested, starting in autumn. Before Alice knew it, the Bishop had finished with Maxine, the last candidate. There were more prayers, including one for the twelve thousand British troops under orders to sail for China and the forty thousand British nationals in Shanghai, whom they were to defend from an upsurge of xenophobia, intensified by the Chinese civil war. They returned to the sitting position; the choir sang an anthem; the Bishop preached a sagacious sermon; they sang another hymn; said more prayers. Then finally the entire clutch of clergy and the choir moved out in procession. There was a general murmur of approval from the congregation standing in reverence, wearing best Sunday clothes and most affable Sunday smiles. Everybody began filing into the aisles from their pews, carrying the Book of Common Prayer and Hymns Ancient and Modern for surrender to the church-warden as they left. St. John’s church was full, and warm, and bright, and the atmosphere was of a special occasion, and Alice was sad that it was all over. Confirmation had been painless but, no, she did not feel any different as a result of it.

  She made her way down the centre aisle with Maxine at her side, nodding here and there with pleasant but unassertive greetings to other parishioners she knew. Halfway down, their mother, who had been sitting with Beccy Crump, met them and smiled proudly.

  ‘Will you come with me to Holy Communion next Sunday, Mom, so’s I can have some bread and wine?’ Alice asked, with a cheeky grin.

  Lizzie laughed and said that all four of them could escort Beccy to church next time, since she was the only one they knew who attended regularly nowadays. Beccy agreed she would like that. They shuffled slowly down the aisle, waiting patiently for each in turn to be addressed by either the vicar, the new curate, Bertram Bebb, or the Bishop.

  It was the vicar, the Reverend Mainwaring who bid good evening to Lizzie and Beccy.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs Crump,’ he said, greeting the senior parishioner first. ‘A lovely service, you’ll agree.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ she agreed. ‘It’s grand to see these young ’uns commit theirselves to the good Lord.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed … And Mrs Kite …’ There was a look of benign admonition on his face as he shook her hand. ‘We haven’t seen you for quite a while, Mrs Kite.’

  ‘Not since my husband’s memorial service. I’ll try and do better, Mr Mainwaring.’

  ‘Ah, but not for long, I hear. Rumour hath it you’re leaving the parish for foreign climes.’

  Lizzie glanced guiltily at Beccy. She had not mentioned it to her neighbour. ‘Yes, it’s true, Vicar, but goodness knows where you’ve heard it,’ she said. ‘We’re going to Southern Rhodesia to live – next month, all being well.’

  ‘Aha! They say it’s a beautiful country, Mrs Kite. We shall sadly miss you and your lovely girls. Still, I hope you’ll all settle and be happy there. I understand there’s a thriving Anglican church where you can continue your worship, so your girls’ confirmation won’t have been in vain.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lizzie said, and moved on so that the girls and Herbert could all be spoken to in their turn.

  As they stood outside waiting for the children to come out, Beccy huddled inside her coat. ‘I dai’ know as yo’ was hemigratin’, Lizzie. Yo’ never said.’

  ‘It’s only just been arranged,’ Lizzie replied apologetically. ‘It seemed pointless saying anything till it was fixed.’

  ‘How come? How yer fixed that? Yo’m a brave wench hemigratin’ with four kids and ne’er an ’usband.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be by myself, Beccy. My second cousin, Stanley Dando’s arranged it. You know? Tom’s son. We’re going out to join him. He’s got a plantation out there. He wants us to go and help with it.’

  ‘An’ where d’yer say it is?’

  ‘Near Salisbur
y in Southern Rhodesia.’ Lizzie pulled her collar up to fend off the cold wind that was gusting round the monolithic graves of wealthier families. ‘There’s nothing to keep us here any longer now Ben’s gone. It’ll be a new life for us. A new start. And I daresay it’ll be a sight warmer than here. I wasn’t that bothered about going at first, but the offer was there, and the kids talked me round in the finish.’

  ‘With Tom Dando’s son, you say?’ Beccy sounded concerned.

  ‘Yes. He’s doing ever so well out there.’

  Lizzie’s family all shot out of church, laughing among themselves, and found their mother and Beccy. Lizzie suggested they go straight home out of the cold and get supper ready.

  ‘Give me the key then, Mom,’ Henzey suggested. ‘We can run on and give the fire a poke, and put the kettle on.’

  Lizzie duly took the key out of her pocket and gave it her. They all headed through the lych gate, bidding goodnight to folk they knew. Lizzie continued walking at Beccy’s leaden pace, holding her arm to steady her. Beccy was seventy-seven and, although she was still active and went to church regularly, she was careful to do everything unhurriedly. Rushing about was for the young and the insane.

  ‘I should think twice about buggerin’ off abroad to live if I was yo’, Lizzie.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve given it a lot of thought, Beccy. It wasn’t a five minute decision, believe me.’

  ‘An’ am yer gunna marry the chap?’

  ‘I might, later on. Stanley said we should. At my age beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘But yo’ ai’ bin a widder five minutes.’ Beccy’s tone was cold. Evidently she did not approve, but Lizzie was not surprised.

  ‘By the time we get there Ben will have been dead nearly twelve months,’ she said defensively. ‘I know it’s not a long time, but it’s circumstances. He wouldn’t have minded.’

  They crossed the road junction at The Bird in Hand. The fact that her father, Isaac, had been killed at that same spot twenty-five years ago seemed to have been forgotten, since neither mentioned it.

  Beccy spoke again. ‘Twelve month ai’ long enough, Lizzie.’ There was an urgency in her tone that made Lizzie take more notice. ‘Your mother’d goo mad if ’er knowed, God rest her soul. And besides, I ai’ at all sure as Stanley Dando’s the right chap for yo’. Think again, my wench, afore yo’ do summat as yo’ might live to regret.’

  ‘Why d’you say that, Beccy? Stanley’s all right. Oh, I know he’s been a bit of a lad in his time, but he’s mellowed now. He’s shaping forty after all. He thinks the world of the kids as well. Where else would I find a man who’d take four kids on?’

  ‘I know,’ Beccy croaked. ‘But what yo’ gorra remember, Lizzie, is them kids o’ yourn am all but growed up now. Your Henzey is proper growed up. They ai’ gunna be no trouble to man nor beast, they’m lovely kids. Any chap’d be prepared to tek ’em on … And I reckon as yo’ can do better for yourself than Stanley Dando. By God, I do.’

  They stopped walking so that Beccy could catch her breath.

  ‘You sound adamant that you’re right, Beccy. How come you’re so certain?’

  ‘I know I’m right, Lizzie my wench. I know I’m right. Tek a tip from me, and have bugger-all to do with Stanley Dando. Yo’ could’ve married Jesse Clancey, if yo’d wanted him.’

  Lizzie smiled again, amused. ‘Except that he’s marrying our Sylvia in a few weeks.’

  Beccy realised that her words, no matter how insistent, were not compelling enough. This young woman, whom she’d known since birth, had to be warned off Stanley Dando. She must be deterred at any price, even if it meant losing her respect or her friendship. Although Beccy didn’t know Tom Dando’s son well, she knew he was totally unsuitable. Her old, but agile mind raced to find some convincing way of dissuading Lizzie. There was perhaps only one way, and she prayed it would work without causing dissension.

  ‘Anyroad,’ Beccy went on, trying to mask her anxiety, ‘how d’yer know it ai’ Henzey as he wants?’

  ‘Why would he want Henzey? It’s me he wants.’

  ‘Am yer sure, Lizzie? I know about men like Stanley Dando, and I know his reputation. Men like him am always after young madams – young flesh. Yo’m still a fine lookin’ wench yourself, Lizzie, but that wo’ last forever, an he knows that. Pooh, it’s a damned certain fact as he wouldn’t ask me to hemigrate with him. And nor would I goo, neither. For all yo’ know he might be temptin’ yo’ out there just to get is hands on young Henzey, cause ’er’s gunna be a rare beauty, and no mistek. In a year or two, Lizzie, when ’er’s sixteen or seventeen, that Stanley Dando wo’ gi’ her a minute’s peace. Yo’ wo’ dare turn your back.’

  They began walking slowly again, in silence now. Beccy’s comments had unnerved Lizzie. There was certainly a ring of truth in her perception of Stanley. Lizzie herself had noticed how he’d gawped at Henzey with lingering, lusting eyes last Christmas Eve when she was all dressed up to go out in her new short dress and silk stockings. And since, too. But she was barely fifteen, even though she looked and acted like an eighteen year old. Surely it was unthinkable. He’d not denied it, though, merely passing it off with his usual chauvinistic bravado.

  What was it about Stanley that he could always get his way with her? Lizzie didn’t fool herself that she was in love with Stanley. Not any more. Yet still he could manipulate her as if she were his puppet. She was forever falling into his traps; and perhaps this was just yet another. He could manipulate any female with his bright, expressive eyes, his virtuoso smile and his easy, amiable way; including Henzey, according to the way she looked at him with her big, blue eyes agog. If only she could glimpse the future and see herself and her children in ten years time, she would know then whether or not it had been the right decision. Unfortunately, few people are gifted with foresight, and Lizzie wasn’t one of them. Common sense and her tenuous trust in Stanley were her only guides.

  But was Stanley to be trusted? Could you trust a man who seldom seemed to have thoughts higher than his groin? Could you trust an inveterate romancer? Patently, you could not. Yet she’d foolishly agreed to risk all for his half promises. She was prepared to take herself and her four precious children to a strange land, as yet undeveloped, not really knowing what awaited them; not really knowing the truth of any of Stanley’s words. Perhaps he meant well – oh, she was certain he meant well – but he was prone to romancing, to exaggerating, especially over something as emotive as this. No, she could never trust Stanley. She could not trust him when something as important as the well-being of her family was at stake. Stanley was not like Ben; never would be. Stanley was not dependable, and she knew it of old. Even her Uncle Tom had warned her about getting mixed up with him just before he died. Had he foreseen the future in his dying days? Why on earth should he try to warn her off Stanley? Now even Beccy Crump was trying to frighten her off. Why did everybody seem so set against him? What did they know that she did not?

  As they walked up Cromwell Street arm in arm Lizzie and Beccy remained silent, but for the calls of goodnight to passing neighbours and acquaintances. Beccy hoped she’d given Lizzie something to think about; profoundly hoped she’d planted some seeds of doubt in the mind of her late best friend’s daughter. If she’d not tried she would have felt unworthy of Eve’s friendship; a friendship that had spanned all those years of trauma, uncertainty, and emotional hardship.

  They reached the entry, and Lizzie followed Beccy through it.

  ‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea with me, Beccy?’

  ‘If yer doh mind, my wench, I’ll goo ’um. I’ve gorra nice bottle o’ stout on the cellar steps as I’ll have mulled with a bit o’ sugar in. I’ve got some bread and cheese for me supper an’ all, as I’ve bin lookin’ forward to. ’Sides, yo’ll have to be up early in the mornin’ if yo’m a-washin’.’

  ‘All right, Beccy. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrer, ar. And think on what I’ve told yer. Good night, Lizzie.’


  Lizzie waited till she heard Beccy’s key turn in the lock and her door open before she went indoors herself. The room was already bright from the gas light, the fire was burning welcomingly, and the kettle was exhaling a wisp of steam, almost boiling. Alice and Maxine, she guessed, were upstairs changing from their best white dresses into their night-dresses, while Henzey and Herbert sat at the table, each reading a half of the same Sunday newspaper spread out between them. They exchanged a few pleasant but irrelevant comments while Lizzie cut slices of bread, and buttered them. Henzey got up and made the tea and, when Maxine and Alice came down to join them, they ate their suppers, talking mostly about the confirmation service and the Bishop. Shortly after ten o’ clock, they went upstairs to bed; all except Lizzie.

  She knew she would not sleep. Her mind was too lively for sleep, mulling over Beccy’s words. Yet she leaned back on the couch on which Ben had spent so much time, and closed her eyes. She closed her eyes as a means of escape from the awful ugly truths of life, wishing she could sleep, wishing she could wake up only when the date they were due to sail had passed, and she could honestly say they’d missed the boat. What was she to do? Whatever she decided would be wrong. If she refused to go to Southern Rhodesia she would suffer a serious rebellion from her children that could lose her their respect forever; and if she decided they should go they might find themselves wallowing in a nightmare from which there would be no awakening. How had she got into this mess? Why had she allowed herself to be railroaded into this situation when she knew she should have remained impassive to Stanley in the first place? Now it was too late. Everything was arranged. It was just too late.

  As she sat with her eyes closed, resigned to her own weakness and to her fate, she saw Stanley’s face vividly in her mind’s eye. Of course, he was smiling, so charming, so desirable, so affable; every woman’s best friend; every woman’s dream man. He came close and she felt his breath as light as a summer breeze. He kissed her full on the mouth, parting her lips easily with his tongue. The sensation of his gorgeous lips on hers was so satisfying, so soothing, that she sighed deeply with the pleasure of it. Then he opened her blouse and loosened her skirt at the waist, and she felt his skilful hand caressing one firm young breast, his tongue teasing the nipple of the other till she was ready to scream with longing. She felt his hand up her skirt, and she raised her backside so he could slip her drawers down easily. And while she was allowing all this she was aware that she was still only a slip of girl; no more than sixteen; a virgin. They’d just come out of church and it was the first time he’d showed any adolescent interest in her. They’d sat alone together for the first time ever in a pew at the back of the church, and he’d daringly held her hand, and she smiled dreamily at him and sighed with a young girl’s longing. Now, with Eve away, enjoying the company of his mother and father in The Shoulder of Mutton, she was stripped naked on the hearth. She was lying beneath him, and his deep gentle thrusts were mesmerisingly sweet. A glow like a bright light ignited her lower belly, tingling, hot and satisfying. Then she was floating above herself, looking down at his bare, heaving backside as he drove remorselessly into her now like a pumping engine. But the sixteen year old girl wriggling beneath him was not herself anymore; it was some other girl, even younger, very slender, with long legs, unblemished skin and sleek, dark hair that was almost jet black save for the fine strands of red that caught the flickering firelight. The girl turned her face toward her, smiling dreamily, and Lizzie could see that she was extraordinarily pretty, but so very young.